“Show me a family that isn’t. But I’m guessing that’s not what was really worrying her.” He turned to her fully, and even in the dim illumination that was a long distance from daylight, she could discern the intensity in his eyes. “She’s talked to you, I know. Things haven’t been exactly easy between us lately. I wasn’t even sure I should come. Now I look out across this lake and I think to hell with the small squabbles. I just want her to be with me and be safe.”
“I understand.”
He studied her and nodded. “She’s told me a lot about you, about everyone. She’s pretty high on her family.”
Rose smiled. “We’re all pretty fond of her, too.”
Jenny hadn’t said much about Aaron’s family, and what little she did wasn’t encouraging. They lived somewhere in Virginia, near D.C. They had money, from banking, she thought. Aaron was their only child, which to Rose meant that they should dote on him. But Jenny said there was something not right in his relationship with his parents, something festering, something that Aaron wouldn’t talk about but that kept him at a distance. He hadn’t been home in several years, and if his parents wanted to see him, they had to come to Iowa. They almost never did. She had yet to meet them.
“You really heard a smuggler out there?” Aaron asked.
“We heard a boat running through the dark. From what Seth said, the circumstance seemed consistent with the action of a smuggler.”
He thought about that, then his gaze made a long sweep of the lake. “A big place, this. Probably not much chance of them running into that kind of trouble, don’t you think?”
What she thought was that she didn’t know the Lake of the Woods and so had no idea what might be possible. What she said was “I’m sure you’re right.”
“I guess we should try to get some sleep,” he said.
“Do you think you can?”
“Maybe I’ll try saying a little prayer before I lie down.”
He didn’t look at her or smile, and she had no idea if it was meant as a joke.
She hoped it wasn’t.
NINETEEN
The cigarette boat roared out of the glare of the rising sun, just as Cork had predicted. He shielded his eyes and squinted and watched it race over water that reflected morning sunlight with painful brilliance. It swung to the far side of the island, where he lost it behind the bald rise that backed the old, damaged cabin. The engines cut out suddenly, and Cork suspected that the boat had entered one of the many inlets along the island’s shoreline, where it would anchor.
He slid toward a small formation of rock that was like a lifted shoulder, slipped into the long trough of morning shadow that it cast, and tried to be still as the stone where he lay. He scanned the island across the channel for any sign of the man who’d come hunting. The birds had returned, and he saw white pelicans roosting along rocks that shot up from the waterline like a row of molars. An eagle rode the wind, circled the island, and finally landed in the crown of one of the few ragged spruce trees that had survived upright. It was an hour before he saw movement of a larger creature near the center of the island, scuttling over a long outcrop of flat-topped rock. Cork wouldn’t have seen him except that the rock was pale as ice and the mottled green of the man’s camouflage fatigues stood out for a few moments in sharp contrast. The figure quickly crossed the rock and vanished amid the debris on the other side. He was too distant and too soon gone for Cork to make out how heavily armed he might be. From the man’s position, Cork was fairly certain that he was, in fact, working his way down the length of the island.
Cork had been right in much of his thinking so far. Not that it pleased him. During the night, as he’d kept his lonely vigil atop the rock, he’d allowed himself to hope that he might be wrong about everything. That the man had fled the island in order to alert the authorities and let them deal with the girl’s murder, and that with the morning light they would come, and he and Jenny would be rescued. Of course, there was the fact that the man had already returned once and carried away the girl’s body, but maybe there was a reasonable explanation for that, too, one that, because he was tired and battered, Cork simply wasn’t seeing.
Now, as he watched for the lone figure to reappear, he was pretty certain the man had taken the body to dispose of it. No corpus delecti, no proof of a crime. This time the killer had returned to be certain that, if there were witnesses, they, too, would disappear.
Now Cork speculated that the man in camouflage would reconnoiter the island and probably find the smashed dinghy and the little shelter Jenny had built and understand that someone had been there after the storm but was no longer. He would realize that in this place visited by no one, someone had come, thrown there by providence and the storm. They’d found the murdered girl, and maybe the baby, and then what? Been rescued? Probably not, or at least not yet, since the island was so remote. So what, then? Gone somewhere else would be the most obvious answer, slipped off the island seeking a better hiding place. And where would that be? The hunter’s gaze would swing across the narrow channel to the only stand of trees in sight that was still upright and offered shelter.
Cork began planning for what he knew would come then.
* * *
She’d heard the engines kick in and had listened as they whisked the man to the island where the girl had been murdered, and then she’d waited, which was hard to do. She wanted desperately to be up on the rock with her father, observing the man’s movements, knowing the way things stood. But the baby couldn’t be left alone, and she knew that one more body above the trees would be one more object the man who hunted them might spot. Better, she understood, to stay below, to see to the baby, and to trust that her father would be her eyes.
But she could still use her brain.
She was thinking: What if the man checked the whole of that devastated island? And what if he found the shelter she’d built but didn’t find her? What would he think? What would he do?
She paced, cradling the baby, who was sound asleep in her arms. Dragonflies darted through the shafts of sunlight, and bees hovered around what might have been the only wildflowers for miles. She barely noticed these things, because her mind was so focused on trying to anticipate the thinking of the man who hunted them.
He would, she decided, wonder first if they’d been rescued, but the evidence—the smashed dinghy, the shelter itself, and the fact that they were in a terribly remote area of the lake—would tell him no. If he was smart, he would understand that they’d fled, looking for a safer hiding place. And where would that be? The only stand of undamaged trees anywhere in sight. He would eye those trees like a hawk might eye a patch of tall grass where it understood a mouse could hide. And then he would come for them.
They had to be prepared. They needed a plan.
That was as far as she’d gotten when she heard the slither of her father down the sloping face of rock. He was sweating when he finally stood before her. He looked grimly at the baby.
“He sleeps like a log, thank God,” he said.
Jenny asked, “What about our hunter?”
“He’s working his way down the island, looking for us.”
“Where is he now?”
“Halfway. We’ve got maybe forty-five minutes before he reaches your shelter.”
“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “He’ll know we’re here. It’s the most logical place.”
“I agree. Unless we divert him.”
She could see that he was ahead of her in his thinking, but as soon as he spoke those two sentences, she was right there with him.
“No, Dad.”
“It’s the only way,” he said.
“Make you the target, right?”
“As unappealing as that is to me, yes.”
