Cork heard the slam of the Bronco passenger door. He peered around the doorway of Sam’s Place and saw the black shape of his son separate from the larger dark of the Bronco.
“No, Stevie!” he yelled. “Stay there!”
But his son had already begun to run.
In his mind’s eye, Cork was seeing the image through a nightscope: the crosshairs centered on the small, moving glow; leading the target just enough to account for bullet velocity and the lope of the boy; exhaling evenly as the finger squeezed the trigger.
He launched himself from the doorway and rocketed toward his son. He hit Stevie on the fifth stride, lifted him in his arms with barely a pause, and sprinted toward the Bronco. He reached the big vehicle and dropped Stevie behind the shield of its bulk.
“You okay?” he said, breathless and scared.
Stevie nodded.
They huddled together. Cork felt his son trembling, then realized the trembling was him. He was shaking worse than if he’d been naked in a blizzard.
“You’re sure?” he said.
“I’m okay, Dad, honest. I thought they shot you.”
“I’m fine.” Though he wasn’t. Not by a long sight.
“Who is it?” Stevie asked.
“I don’t know.”
He tried to think, not just about the identity of the shooter but also about the shooter’s location and whether the son of a bitch would seek a better firing position. The Bronco sat broadside to the old ironworks and provided good cover, unless the shooter moved.
“What are we going to do?” Stevie asked. “Do you have your gun, Dad?”
No, damn it, he didn’t. “What did you do with the cell phone?”
“I left it on the seat. I can get it.” Stevie started to move, but Cork grabbed his son’s arm.
“No you don’t. You stay right here.” His big quaking hands cupped Stevie’s shoulders and he looked sternly into his son’s eyes. “This is what we’re going to do. I’m going to open the driver’s door and turn on the headlights.”
“But he’ll see us.”
Cork didn’t want to waste time explaining, but his son needed to understand.
“If he’s using a nightscope, the glare from the headlights might blind him. I’ll grab my cell phone and zip right back here to you and we’ll call 911. If I’m hit, Stevie, you have to promise me you’ll run. Run to Sam’s Place and lock the door.”
“No, I wouldn’t leave you.”
“If I’m hit, I’ll need help. Use the phone in Sam’s Place to make the call. Do you understand?”
“I don’t want-”
“Run. That’s all there is to it. Understand?” It came out harsh, but he didn’t have time to make it easier.
Stevie stared at him, his eyes dark cups full of hurt. He said nothing, but he nodded.
“All right.” Cork let go of Stevie’s shoulders and moved toward the driver’s door.
The Bronco faced the lake and like a wall shielded him from the shooter’s position down the shoreline. Once he opened the driver’s door, however, the dome light would give him away and for a moment he would be a perfect target. Cork hoped maybe the light would be startling enough to make the shooter hesitate and he could switch on the blinding glare of the headlights before the squeeze of the trigger came. It was a gamble with odds he didn’t particularly care for, but at the moment he couldn’t think of another strategy. He grabbed the door handle and yanked. The dome light winked on. He leaned in and reached for the headlight switch. The brilliance that burst from the Bronco was like white ice, freezing the gravel of the lot, the red cedar picnic table, the lone pine near the shoreline, and thirty yards of the smooth black surface of Iron Lake. Cork reached to the backseat, expecting any second to hear the bark of the rifle, though he knew he wouldn’t hear the bullet that got him. He snatched the cell phone and began to slide back toward safety.
And the shot came.
He heard the report but didn’t feel any impact nor did he hear the round hit. He thought the shot had gone wild.
Then he heard Stevie grunt, and his heart yanked a cord that drew every muscle of his body taut.
“Stevie!” he cried.
He pushed from the vehicle. His feet slipped on the gravel and he went down on one knee, tearing a hole in his jeans. He stumbled toward the rear wheel well where he’d left his son.
Stevie knelt on the ground, bowed forward, his hands pressed to his face. Cork dropped beside him.
“Stevie?” He touched a shoulder.
His son looked up. Blood dripped over his lips and chin. For a second, Cork stood absolutely frozen.
“I’m okay, Dad,” Stevie said. “I went down when I heard the shot and I hit my nose on the bumper. Are you all right?”
Cork felt almost giddy with relief. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just fine.”
He flipped the phone open and 911’ed the sheriff’s department. Then he put his son against the Bronco and with his own body shielded him until he heard the sirens rise out of the distance.
NINETEEN
They sat in Cork’s office in the back part of Sam’s Place. Marsha Dross and Ed Larson were drinking strong coffee. Cork always made his coffee strong. For Stevie, he’d whipped up some hot chocolate. He’d also put ice in a Baggie, which Stevie applied to the bridge of his nose between sips from his cup.
A small notebook sat open in front of Ed Larson and he’d already filled a couple of pages with notes. He had questioned Cork and now he was questioning Stevie, whose responses were a little nasally due to the swelling. The questioning had an interesting effect on Cork’s son. It seemed to help him forget about his injury, and his answers were clear and considered.
No, he didn’t see anything or anyone.
But he did hear something. When his dad was checking the outside of Sam’s Place with the flashlight, he heard the bump of a canoe against rocks somewhere down the shoreline.
“In the vicinity of the old ironworks?” Larson asked.
Stevie squinted a little. Thinking, not pain.
He wasn’t sure, but most of the shoreline between Sam’s Place and the ironworks was sand or soft dirt. The only rocks were where the dock for the ironworks used to be.
“I don’t suppose you have an idea about the canoe?”
Aluminum. Kevlar or wood wouldn’t make that kind of sound.
“Why do you think it was a canoe? Why not a rowboat or even a powerboat?”
If it was a powerboat, he would have heard the motor. And if you needed to get away fast, especially if you were alone, a canoe would be better than a rowboat, wouldn’t it?
Larson looked to Cork, who simply shrugged. He’d heard nothing.
Dross used a walkie-talkie to contact her people who were going over the area around the ironworks, and she directed them to take a look at the shoreline.
“Any point in getting our own boat out there?” Larson put the question to the sheriff.
“In the dark?” She shook her head. “By now the shooter’s off the lake anyway.”
“That was good work, Stephen,” Larson said.
Stevie flushed just a little at the praise and went back to sipping his chocolate and nursing his injury.
They were just finishing up when Jo swept into Sam’s Place, wearing her long black car coat and still dressed in the navy suit, cream-colored blouse, and heels she’d worn that day in court. Like a dark wind she blew past the others and knelt beside her son. She took Stevie’s face in her hands and studied the damage with her sharp, ice blue eyes. Her hair was a little wild-the long day maybe, or maybe she’d run a hand through it worrying about her
