The William Kent Krueger Collection #4

by William Kent Krueger

  They rode out mostly in silence. As Stump Island loomed on the horizon, Kretsch turned to Cork and said, “I’ve never had to carry out any kind of real investigation on the Angle. Mostly I break up fights and arrest drunks and give out parking tickets. I know you were a county sheriff for a long time. Would you mind taking the lead on this?”

  “I think you should ask the questions, Tom. It’s your jurisdiction. But tell you what, if there’s something I think you’ve missed, I’ll toss in a question or two of my own. Okay?”

  Kretsch didn’t seem entirely comfortable with the arrangement, but he said, “Okay.”

  Because Cork wanted a good look at the whole island before they landed, he asked Kretsch to circle Stump. What he saw was a wall of forest that could have hidden an army. With enough men and arms to defend it, that island, so isolated in the vast expanse of Lake of the Woods, would be a bitch to storm, whether by the forces of Satan or by the men and women of law enforcement.

  It was nearing noon, and the sun was almost directly overhead. By the time they approached the dock on Stump Island, the day had turned hot. Two men came from the Seven Trumpets camp to meet them. Both carried rifles. Kretsch motored close, and Cork leaped from the boat with the bow line and tied up to a cleat. Kretsch killed the engine, tossed the stern line, and when Cork had finished securing the boat, joined him on the dock. They turned to meet their welcome committee.

  “Good morning,” Kretsch said and introduced himself and Cork.

  The two men were big and broad and wore army green ball caps that shaded square faces. One had longish blond hair; the other appeared to be completely bald.

  The bald man said, “Morning,” in a way that suggested more a threat than a greeting.

  “I’m looking for Gabriel Hornett,” Kretsch said, still chipper.

  “Not here,” the man said.

  “You mean he’s not on the island?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “Could we speak with Abigail, then?”

  “She’s not around either.”

  “Both of them are gone?”

  “I just said that, didn’t I?”

  “Is there someone we could talk to, someone in charge? Joshua Hornett, maybe?”

  “He’s not here either, and if he was, he wouldn’t be in charge. That’d be me.”

  “And you are?”

  “Darrow.”

  “Is that a first or a last name?”

  “First name’s Patrick.”

  “And you are?” Kretsch said, addressing the blond-haired man, who’d stood like a fence post with eyes.

  “Billings,” the man said. “Chester A.”

  Kretsch nodded and looked past them toward the camp buildings. “Could you tell me where the Hornetts have gone?”

  “Away,” Darrow replied.

  “You don’t know where?”

  “No idea.”

  “You?” Kretsch asked Billings, Chester A.

  Billings said nothing, only gave his head the faintest ghost of a shake.

  “Mind if we look around a little?” Kretsch asked.

  “Got a warrant?” Darrow challenged.

  “No. Not looking for anything special. Why? You have something to hide?”

  “Not a thing, Deputy.”

  “Then there’s no reason we couldn’t just have a stroll, right? When we talked to Hornett day before yesterday, he was pretty hospitable.”

  The two men exchanged a look, then Darrow gave a nod. “We’ll walk with you.”

  In the absence of a wind, the day was still, and Cork heard metallic hammering ahead. When they cleared the first of the buildings and came in sight of the base of the broadcast tower, Cork saw several men at work there. At the moment, it appeared that getting the tower up was the primary business of Seven Trumpets. The story of the Tower of Babel came easily to Cork’s mind.

  He said, “Two days ago, Hornett told us you folks’ll be broadcasting scripture and the like pretty soon.”

  Darrow didn’t appear to think that required a reply.

  “It’ll have to be a pretty strong signal to reach anyone from here.”

  “It’ll be strong,” Darrow said.

  “And what will your message be?”

  “Don’t fuck with us,” Billings said.

  Cork scratched his unshaved jaw, making a sound like rubbing sandpaper. “I don’t recall that line from scripture.”

  “He means,” Darrow interjected, “that we’re about the Lord’s work up here, and in a Godless world the righteous will stand firm.”

  “Yeah,” Billings said. “What I meant.”

  “A mighty fortress, is that it?” With a sweep of his hand, Cork indicated the camp.

  “Do you believe in the End of Days?” Darrow asked him seriously.

  “I have to admit, I have my doubts.”

  “Then you’ll perish, brother. And the last words you hear will be coming from us, broadcast over our tower there.”

  Kretsch said, “Telling the rest of us that you told us so?”

  Darrow gave the deputy a dark look. “It’s all God’s word, all laid out in the Bible, if you ever took the time to read it.”

  Cork could have argued, but he’d learned a long time ago that, when confronting men with big rifles and little minds, discretion was best.

  The community hall sat on a slight rise ahead, and Cork saw that, like the night before, an armed guard stood at the entrance.

  Kretsch said, “Mind if we have a look inside your community hall?”

  Which was exactly what Cork was thinking.

  “I don’t think so,” Darrow said.

  “Hornett took us in the other day.”

  “That was Gabriel and that was then.”

  “You have your church sanctuary inside, right?” Cork said.

  “Yes.”

  “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not,” Cork said.

  Darrow gave him a blank look.

  Cork said, “Gospel according to Luke. If you ever took the time to read it.”

  “You want in, come back when Gabriel is here.”

  “When would that be?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Kretsch said, “We’ve had some reports of the sound of heavy gunfire on Stump Island. Automatic weapons, machine guns, that kind of thing. Know anything about that?”

  “Don’t have a clue,” Darrow said.

  Kretsch nodded toward the firearms the two men sported. “You ever fire those rifles, do some practice shooting?”

  “We practice.”

  “Got a firing range?”

  “Nothing formal.”

  “Not much of a fortress here if you can’t defend it,” Kretsch said.

  “Oh, we can defend it,” Billings said. “Just try us.”

  “You got some ID?” Kretsch asked the man.

  “What for?”

  “You don’t sound Minnesotan. Just wondering where you’re from.”

  “Mississippi, not that it’s any business of yours.”

  “What about you?” Kretsch asked Darrow.

  “Idaho.”

  “Folks here from all over?”

  “All over,” Darrow replied.

  “Gathering because you really believe the final days are upon us.”

  “You got to be blind to miss the signs,” Billings said.

  Kretsch looked to Cork. “Seen enough?”

  “There’s one more thing I’d like to have a look at,” Cork said.

  “Yeah? What’s that?” Darrow was growing surlier by the minute.

  “The boathouse.”

  Darrow thought it over, gave a shrug, and turned back toward the lake. He led them to the boathouse, from which, the night before, Cork and Kretsch had seen Smalldog’s cigarette boat depart. He opened the door and let them have a look inside. The slip was empty.

  “Where’s the boat you keep in here?” Kretsch asked.

  “We don’t keep nothing in here. All our
boats we keep at the dock.”

  “We saw two boats tied up at the dock day before yesterday,” Cork said. “They’re both still there. What did the Hornetts use to go wherever it is that they went?”

  Darrow hesitated a moment too long, then said, “Someone picked them up.”

  “Who?” Kretsch asked.

  “Didn’t see. Let’s go.” With the barrel of his rifle, Darrow waved them back outside.

  On the dock, Kretsch pulled out his wallet, took a business card from inside, and handed it to Darrow. “Have Gabriel give me a call when he returns.”

  “Whatever,” Darrow said, and Cork had the feeling that, as soon as they were gone, the man would tear the card into little pieces. Or maybe eat it.

  They cast off and motored away slowly.

  “What do you think?” Kretsch said.

  “An island of really scary loonies,” Cork answered.

  “They’re hiding something, and my guess is that it’s in the community hall.”

  Cork thought the same thing. “Their arsenal, maybe?”

  Kretsch said, “Big structure, huge foundation. If there’s a sublevel to that place, you could park a battalion of tanks down there.” He shook his head. “Still got nothing for a search warrant, though.”

  “Maybe Bascombe will have found something,” Cork said.

  Kretsch turned the boat north toward Oak Island, far beyond the empty horizon. Just as he eased the throttle forward, Cork said, “Wait!”

  Along the shoreline of Stump Island, among the trees a good two hundred yards outside the camp buildings, he spotted a figure waving to them wildly. He took the field glasses he’d brought and put them to his eyes.

  “Who is it?” Kretsch asked.

  “Joshua Hornett’s wife.”

  “Mary, right? Believes she’s the mother of Christ?”

  “Whatever she believes, it’s pretty clear she wants us to come to her.” Cork swung the field glasses back toward the camp and saw that the men who’d escorted them were no longer on the dock. “Let’s see what she wants. Can you get in close?”

  Kretsch checked the GPS display. “It’ll be tricky, but we can make it.”

  He swung the boat east and came carefully at the shoreline. The woman waited for them, pacing like a tiger, glancing nervously in the direction of the compound. As soon as the boat was near enough, she called out, “Please take me away from here!” She looked prepared to leap into the water and swim to them.

  “Easy,” Cork called back. “We’re almost there.”

  He went to the bow, watched the water for rocks, and waved at Kretsch to cut the motor when they were still a few yards out. He eased himself over the side and waded to the woman.

  “You’ll have to get into the water, ma’am,” he said gently. “That’s as close as we can get.”

  She nodded her assent and let him help her to the boat, where Kretsch lifted her over the gunwale. Cork followed her up.

  “Are you all right?” Kretsch asked her.

  She looked up at him with startled green eyes. “They killed my son,” she said. Which was exactly what she’d said to them a couple of days before in the community hall.

  “I understand,” Kretsch said and shot Cork a look that told him they were dealing with another loony.

  “No,” the woman said. “You don’t. They killed my son.” She wore a simple dress the color of old butter and with a faint checkered pattern across it. There was a pocket sewn to the front of the skirt. She reached into the pocket, brought out a photograph, and handed it to Kretsch. Cork moved to look over the deputy’s shoulder. It was a color Polaroid, worn and clearly much-handled. It showed the woman, a good deal younger, with a baby cradled in her arms. The baby looked to Cork to be only a few weeks old. His face was wide and his eyes oddly angled. Down syndrome, Cork thought. There were mountains in the background. The woman looked happy.

  “This is your son?” Cork asked.

  “Was my son,” she said. “I named him Adam.”

  Kretsch handed the photograph back and asked gently, “What happened to Adam?”

  “They killed him,” she said, and a moment later, she began to cry.

  “Who killed him, Mary?” Cork asked.

  “My name’s not Mary,” she shot back, wiping at her eyes. “They tell everyone that so you’ll think I’m crazy. My name’s Sarah.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything the last time we were here?”

  “Because they’d kill me, too.”

  “You said they killed Adam? The Hornetts killed him?”

  “They’re brutal, heartless murderers,” she said.

  “Why did they kill your son?”

  She glanced fearfully back at the island and said, “Please get me away from here. If they realize I’m gone, they’ll come and shoot us all.”

  FORTY-THREE

  They sat in the lodge until it felt like a prison and they the prisoners. Anne finally stood and said, “I have to go outside, just for a little while, just for a little sun.”

  Mal said, “I’ll go with you.”

  Rose stayed, using the excuse that she wanted to figure out what to prepare for dinner that evening. In truth, she wanted time to herself for some deep thinking and some desperate prayer.

  In her brief sleep during the night before, she’d had a dream. It had been so terrible that she didn’t even share it with Mal, but it had jarred her awake and left her fearful of closing her eyes again.

  In the nightmare, Rose had seen them all—every one of the O’Connors and her and Mal—standing in a clearing surrounded by bodies. None of the bodies was whole. They’d all been torn into bloody pieces. Rose and the people she loved most in the world huddled together and fearfully eyed the edges of the clearing, where amid the dark, unfathomable shadows of the trees, things moved. She couldn’t make out what lurked there, human or beast, but whatever it was, it was preparing to come at them and tear them apart in exactly the way it had torn apart all those bodies around them. Rose was not just afraid, she was terrified. And worst of all, she had the sense that they were absolutely alone in that clearing, that God had abandoned them completely. It was this that scared her most. That somehow she—they—had done something that had made even God turn his back on them.

  As soon as Mal and Anne left, she went to the kitchen, but rather than rummage through the refrigerator and cupboards, she stood awhile with her eyes closed. She prayed silently that, in whatever lay ahead, God would be with them and would stay their hands from doing anything that might, in his eyes, be unforgivable. Was there such a thing, she wondered, even as she prayed, something so terrible that even God could not offer pardon?

  Her eyes were still closed and her mind focused on prayer when she felt a strong arm wrap around her chest and the blade of a knife press against her neck, and the coldest voice she’d ever heard whispered, “One sound and I’ll slit your throat.”

  Rose stood paralyzed, and the feel of the nightmare, of being alone in the clearing abandoned by God, overwhelmed her.

  “Who are you?” the cold voice asked.

  She barely managed to speak. “Rose,” she said. “Thorne.”

  “I don’t care about your name. I want to know who you are. Are you one of them?”

  One of whom? she wanted to ask.

  Before she could reply, the whisperer from behind demanded, “Where’s the baby?”

  This she would not answer.

  “Tell me where the baby is, or I’ll kill you now.”

  Her heart beat so hard and fast she could feel the pound of it in her throat beneath the blade of the knife. Somehow, she found words and stammered, “Now or later, you’ll kill me anyway.”

  “Maybe not, if you give me the baby.”

  “So you can kill him like you killed his mother? No.”

  The man stayed at her back, his body pressed so tightly to hers that she could feel the iron of every muscle. “Move,” he said and forced her from the kitchen to the front door of the lo
dge. “Call them in.”

  She made no effort to comply. She felt the knife cut into her flesh and blood trickle down her neck.

  “Call them in.”

  “If I call them in,” she said, nearly breathless, “you’ll kill them, too.”

  “Maybe not,” he whispered. “Or maybe I’ll do it whether you call them or not.”

  She didn’t reply, nor did she call out to Mal and Anne.

  “Be afraid, woman. You will die.”

  “We all die eventually.”

  He was quiet, his breath hot against her ear. “You’re not afraid?”

  “Yes.”

  “All I want is the baby.”

  “I’ll die before I give you that child.”

  “He’s not yours to give.” It was said with anger as sharp as the blade he held.

  At that moment, Mal and Anne stood up and started for the lodge. Rose thought of crying out, of sacrificing herself for them, but before she could speak, the man at her back released the arm he’d wrapped around her chest, brought it up and clamped his hand over her mouth, and drew her forcefully back into the kitchen, where they stood together.

  All Rose could do was pray, which she did with her whole being. She heard the door open and two voices and a little laughter from Anne.

  “Rose?” Mal called.

  The man moved her to the kitchen doorway. Rose saw her husband’s face, stunned as if a horse had kicked him. The rifle was held in his right hand, but he did nothing to bring it to the ready. Whether this was a conscious choice or simply that Mal had never used a firearm and his mind didn’t naturally leap in that direction, Rose couldn’t say. Nor could she say whether or not she was relieved by her husband’s inaction.

  “Noah Smalldog,” Mal said.

  “Tell me where the baby is, and I’ll let her go.”

  “We know what you did to your sister,” Mal said quietly, reasonably. “Even if I could tell you where that baby is, I wouldn’t. None of us would.”

  “What I did to my sister?” The man sounded at the edge of mania, and Rose felt his body begin to shake with rage. “I’ve seen your boats coming and going from Stump Island. Are you part of them?”