“Anyone see them?”
“I’m pretty sure not,” Rose said.
Bascombe nodded grimly. “I’ll feel better once we get the call that they’ve made it safe.”
He’d given Kretsch the GPS coordinates for a cabin on the south shore of Lake of the Woods, northwest of Zippel Bay. The cabin was empty, he knew, because the man who’d owned it was in prison for smuggling cigarettes into Canada. The land was now forfeited property of the U.S. government, but nothing had been done with it, and the cabin sat abandoned. Bascombe had used the place himself for a weekend fishing rendezvous with a couple of his old pals from ATF. It had a good dock and was isolated and ought to work well for getting the baby onto the mainland without anyone seeing.
The plan was for Aaron to drive his truck to the cabin, along with Stephen, pick up Jenny and the baby, and all of them head to Tamarack County and the safety they hoped Henry Meloux would offer. Kretsch and Cork would return across the big water and begin the hunt for Noah Smalldog.
Bascombe plopped his big body down at the table. “That coffee smells good, Rose. Any left?”
“Let me pour you a cup, then I’ll make a fresh pot,” she said.
“How’s our baby?” Bascombe said, nodding toward the basket where the swaddled towel lay. “Did you show that guy plenty of affection out there on the dock?”
“Don’t worry. She played her part well,” Mal answered. “Did anybody follow you to Windigo Island?”
“Yep. Had a tail all the way.” Bascombe sounded quite pleased. “He kept his boat pretty far back, so I didn’t get a good look at him. But Indian I’d say.”
“Smalldog?”
Bascombe shook his head. “One of his cohorts, I figure.”
Rose put a cup full of coffee down on the table in front of him. “What about Stephen and Aaron?”
“Didn’t see anyone take off after them, so I think they’re in the clear. I’m guessing I was followed because I’ve got the best boat. Tom was right about that. I just hope to God he doesn’t run into any heavy weather in that little Tyee of his. The open water on that south section of the lake is so huge it generates its own unpredictable weather systems. Squalls can come up out of nowhere.”
That put a damper on conversation for a little while. Rose busied herself making another pot of coffee. Mal stood up and limped to the wall where a map of the Lake of the Woods and the Angle hung. He studied it a moment.
“I’ve been trying to figure out the Northwest Angle,” he said. “To get here, you’ve got to cross the border and drive through sixty miles of Canadian wilderness, or else cut across forty miles of open water on Lake of the Woods. What’s a piece of U.S. territory doing this far north?”
“Northernmost point in the forty-eight contiguous states,” Bascombe said, with a note of pride. “The result of a misunderstanding during the negotiations for the treaty that set the border between us and Canada.”
“What kind of misunderstanding?” Anne asked.
Bascombe slurped his coffee, closed his eyes, and let the good brew trickle down his throat. “Where exactly the headwaters of the Mississippi River lay. Everybody thought they were much farther east than they ended up being. The result was a little northern jut of territory that cut across Lake of the Woods and included the Angle. Up here we call it ‘the chimney.’ ”
Mal hobbled back to join the others at the table. “How long have you been on the Angle, Seth?”
“Been coming here all my life. My aunt and uncle ran this little resort. When they passed, they left the property to me. I was working ATF then, so I couldn’t really do anything with it. I’d come here occasionally, try to see to things, but the old place pretty much went downhill. Finally, when I’d had one day too many of wearing a Kevlar vest at work, I retired, and moved here for good to reopen the place, try to make a go of it. Discovered real fast that I didn’t have the temperament for that kind of enterprise. I live here alone now. Suits me fine.”
Rose finished putting the new pot of coffee together and turned back to the table, where Bascombe sat sprawled, looking worn.
“How long before we hear from them?” she asked.
Bascombe thought it over. “If they don’t run afoul of the weather, and if Tom has no engine problems, and if Smalldog didn’t somehow get wind of our ruse and is waiting for them out on the big water, I’d say three hours.”
“Three hours of waiting,” Anne said.
In her niece’s tone, Rose heard what they all probably felt: Three hours would seem like forever.
“Mal, Seth,” she said, putting all the robustness she could muster into her voice, “you two should get back out on the dock and show a presence here. Annie, let’s bake some cookies.”
THIRTY-SIX
Cork had never been on water so huge. He was more than uncomfortable. He was seasick.
The big water, as the folks on the Angle called it, was well named. It stretched away to the horizon in every direction, dazzling blue under the vast sky, shot with diamonds of reflected sunlight, alive with swells. Kretsch was intent at the helm, fighting to keep the Tyee on course against the sweep of waves and shove of wind. Jenny sat with the ice chest at her feet, her eyes darting between the baby nestled inside and the vast expanse of water on which they were the only human presence.
Cork understood that it was going to be the longest and most miserable boat ride of his life.
He’d always believed that particular distinction would belong to the dinner excursion he’d made on Lake Michigan the night he proposed to Jo. It should have been romantic but turned out to be comic tragedy. Although they were never out of sight of land, the wind had been strong and the cruise a little rough and Cork hadn’t been able to eat much. He’d managed near the end of dinner to pop his question. And then he promptly threw up.
It had been a funny story to tell across the years. He was pretty sure that after this boat trip there would be nothing funny to tell.
He moved to the seat next to the helm and spoke to Kretsch, mostly to take his mind off his rolling stomach.
“How’re we doing, Tom?”
Kretsch glanced at the GPS display on the unit attached to the dash. “On target,” he said.
Cork eyed the great empty water around them. “No sign of any other boat. That’s good.”
“Most other boats wouldn’t be out here on a day like this.”
Cork leaned close to the deputy. “You’ll get us there, right?”
Kretsch gave him a look of consummate confidence. “I’ll get us there.”
Cork sat back, relieved. “You know Lake of the Woods pretty well?”
“There are a lot of folks who know it better, folks who’ve lived here all their lives. But I know it pretty well.”
“How long have you been here?”
“I started coming up to fish walleye with my father and brothers when I was a kid. In college, I spent summers on the Angle, helping with one or another of the resorts. Started guiding eventually. Finally moved up here for good.”
“What’s your law enforcement background?”
Kretsch shook his head. “Don’t have any. I took the job because the sheriff couldn’t find anyone else willing. Everything I know is from experience.”
The relief that Cork had felt in all of Kretsch’s assurances vanished in an instant. “No law enforcement training whatsoever?”
“Ride-alongs with the deputies out of Baudette, and a bunch of seminars over time, but that’s about it. Up here, there’s not much breach of the law to worry about. It’s only a part-time job. The rest of the time I work for a barge company in Angle Inlet, helping deliver big items to the islands.”
Jesus Christ, Cork wanted to say. He’d always thought of Tamarack County as a rural operation. This topped everything.
