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
