“If he is behind us,” Meloux said, “moving ahead will take us away from him. If he is ahead, he is waiting, and dark is not a good time to walk into his trap.”
“We should stay here?” Cork said.
The old man said, “Yes.”
There was no way to know for sure what Stone had up his sleeve. Ahead, behind, watching them from somewhere even now, perhaps. When Fineday didn’t argue, Cork figured that he’d accepted Meloux’s advice. It sounded good to Cork, too.
“Maybe I should park myself out of sight near the last landing, see if anybody’s following,” Morgan said.
“Not a bad idea, Howard.”
“It’s almost time for a radio check,” Morgan reminded him.
“I’ll do it,” Cork said.
When he raised Larson on the radio, Ed’s first question was “What’s your twenty?”
“Lamb Lake.”
“Any sign of Stone or the Fineday girl?”
“Nothing.”
“Have you seen anything, anything at all, that would confirm you’re on the right track?”
“That’s a negative.”
“Cork, you could be on a wild-goose chase. Or, worse, walking right into Stone’s gun sight.”
“I’m still open to suggestions.” Cork waited for a reply, then said, “In the meantime, have the DeHavilland make one more pass over the area before it’s too dark.”
There was a grill at the campsite, but it was too risky to build a fire. Morgan returned having seen nothing, and they sat down to a meal of peanut butter sandwiches, dried apricots, and Hershey bars with almonds. Once the sun had set fully, the chill of the autumn night rolled in quickly. Although it had taken precious space in the Duluth pack, Morgan had brought a one-burner Coleman stove and a small propane tank. He boiled lake water and made instant coffee, which the men drank eagerly.
The sky was amethyst and still without stars. “You said he would circle or he would set a trap.” Fineday spoke out of the growing dark under the aspens. His form was clear, but his face was almost lost. “What kind of trap?”
“Why does he have your daughter?” Meloux said.
“Because he’s a son of a bitch.”
“That,” the old man agreed. “But if our sheriff is right, Stone has her for the same reason a hunter puts fish and honey in a bear trap. Have you ever built a bear trap in the old way?”
Fineday said no.
“You build it of brush. It does not need to be sturdy, so long as there is only one way for the bear to get in. Even a hungry bear will look for the easiest way. The hunter puts the fish and honey far back in the trap, and he sets a heavy log over the opening. When makwa walks in,” Meloux said, using the Ojibwe word for bear, “the hunter springs the trap, the log falls, makwa ’s back is broken. It is the fish and honey that are his undoing.”
“Stone is counting on us wanting the girl,” Morgan said.
Meloux sipped his coffee. “Would we be here if he did not have her?”
They heard the drone of the DeHavilland as it approached and flew low overhead. It circled Lamb Lake, then headed north into the darkening sky.
A few minutes later, Larson radioed from base. The floatplane had nothing to report.
Cork stood up and said, “Going to see a man about a horse.”
He started in the direction of the pit toilet. Although he took a flashlight, he didn’t turn it on. He’d gone less than a dozen steps when he froze and listened. From the portage came the snap of twigs and the crack of dry leaves underfoot. Quickly he riffled through the possibilities. An innocent canoeist? But the floatplane had spotted no one on the lake behind them. An animal? A moose might make that kind of noise, so maybe. Stone? No, Stone would never give himself away so easily. Unless he was up to something.
Cork was too far from his weapon, but in the thin light he saw Morgan in a kneeling position with his rifle stock snugged against his shoulder. Fineday quickly brought his own rifle to the ready. Meloux was invisible, already part of the woods somehow. Cork dropped to the ground and kept his eyes on the portage, visible through the trees twenty yards away. The ground was littered with golden aspen leaves, and the scent of their desiccation should have been strong, but all he could smell was the coffee Morgan had made. He wondered how far that good smell had traveled. Had Stone picked it up?
From the lake came the cry of a loon and, nearer to Cork, the buzzing of a night insect the cold had not yet killed. He heard the approaching footfalls, the scrape of something huge pushing against the brush at the side of the trail, something that seemed to let out a small growl now and then as it came. Both Morgan and Fineday had their cheeks laid against the rifle stocks, sighting.
The black shape that appeared, rattling the underbrush, was like nothing Cork had ever seen. Nearly as tall and long as a moose, it lumbered along the portage toward Lamb Lake. Cork couldn’t help thinking of the cannibal ogre, the Windigo.
The creature stumbled and let out a cry. Then it spoke.
“Shit.”
Cork recognized the voice.
“Dina?”
He realized the truth of what he was seeing. No creature, but Dina Willner, portaging what looked to be an inflatable kayak, which was sometimes called a duckie.
She set the kayak on the ground, and as she did so, the heavy rubber siding scraped the underbrush, resulting in what sounded like a growl.
“I was surprised you stopped,” she said, a little breathless. “There was still daylight.”
Morgan and Fineday lowered their rifles. Cork made his way across the campsite.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he said.
“What I’m paid to do. Consulting.”
On her back she carried a pack, and slung over her right shoulder was a scoped rifle.
“Jesus Christ, we almost shot you.”
“With all that noise? You might not have known it was me, but I know you didn’t think it was Stone.”
“A visitor?” Meloux asked. He’d materialized from nowhere.
“Not for long, Henry. She’s going back,” Cork said.
Meloux shook his head. “Not tonight. Not with Stone in these woods.”
Dina walked to him and gave her hand. “I’m Dina Willner.”
“Henry Meloux.” The old man appraised her, top to bottom, and nodded appreciatively. “You are small but you have the look of a hunter. Are you hungry?”
“Henry,” Dina replied with a huge smile, “I’m absolutely famished.”
“It was the last inflatable the sporting goods store had. Not the best, but I figured that for a couple of days, it would do.” She’d eaten a sandwich and a handful of the apricots, and now she was sipping coffee Morgan had offered. “I stashed it on the other side of Bruno Lake before you all got started.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” Cork said.
“You mean, why am I here?”
“That would be the one.”
“Because I’m not one of your people and have to stay back. Because you wouldn’t have let me come if I’d asked. Because this is the kind of thing I’m good at.”
“How did you find us?” Fineday said.
“I’m an excellent tracker,” she said. “Also, I bugged Sheriff O’Connor.”
Cork thought a moment, then dug in his pants and pulled out the medallion she had passed to him through Simon Rutledge.
“Good old Saint Christopher,” Dina said. “He never lets me down.”
“The DeHavilland didn’t spot you,” Cork said.
“I have a radio tuned to your frequency. I made sure I was under cover whenever the plane was due to fly
