Cork scanned the marina, trying to see everything-all three docks, all the moored boats. The long angle of the sunlight created so many shadowed enclaves that there were a hundred places for a man to hide. A slight breeze blew across the lake, and the boats rocked gently, creating the illusion of movement on every deck.
Lindstrom walked slowly, looking carefully right and left, reading the names painted on the bows of the vessels, seeking the one called Matador. Cork glanced at his watch. The hands were just now touching eight-fifteen. He realized Lindstrom’s watch was running fast by a couple of minutes.
He shouted, “Karl!”
Lindstrom paused halfway down the dock and turned back.
The explosion blew a small sailboat at the end of the dock into a blur of smoke and fragments. The other boats there shoved back and tugged at their moorings like nervous ponies. Splintered board rained down on the marina, peppering the water and Cork. Lindstrom was down.
Cork ran to dock 3 where Lindstrom lay on his back, not moving. When Cork reached him, he saw that Lindstrom’s eyes were open and he was staring up at the sky.
“Am I dead?” he asked.
Cork shook his head. “Are you hurt?”
“What? I can’t hear you.”
“Hurt.” Cork mouthed the word and felt his own body in pantomime.
“I don’t know.” Lindstrom tried to rise, but Cork kept him down.
“Stay there.” Cork gestured with his hands. Then he put an imaginary phone to his ear. “I’m going to call you in. We’ll have some paramedics here in no time.”
“Huh?”
“Stay.”
Cork raced back to the bait shop and used the pay phone outside it to call the sheriff’s office. By the time he’d returned to Lindstrom, he heard the sirens already wailing.
19
HIGHWAY MAINTENANCE BROUGHT OVER BARRICADES, and Schanno’s men set up a perimeter, blocking access to the marina. Even so, deputies Gil Singer and Cy Borkmann were having a hell of a time keeping the crowd back.
“I want every off-duty officer brought in,” the sheriff instructed Deputy Marsha Dross. “And get some floodlights. It’s going to be dark soon.”
Agents Owen and Earl were out at the end of dock 3, looking at the water where only the mast of the Matador jutted above the surface. Captain Ed Larson, who headed up all the criminal investigations for the sheriff’s department, was talking with Jack Beagan, the harbormaster.
Karl Lindstrom sat on the front seat of Wally Schanno’s Land Cruiser drinking coffee from a disposable cup. He’d been treated by the paramedics for minor lacerations-splinters-but aside from a bit of quivering in his hand as he sipped his coffee, he seemed just fine.
Jo stood apart, observing everything darkly. She’d arrived after the sheriff’s people and before the ambulance. As soon as she’d made sure Cork was all right, she turned stony and moved away from him. She hadn’t said, “I told you so,” but the sentiment came off her anyway, strong as garlic.
Cork was scanning the crowd. In the murk of twilight, the red-and-white flash from the lights atop the sheriff’s department cruisers added to the chaotic, jittery feel of all those people pressed against the barricades. Cork recognized a lot of the faces. The understandably curious. He also saw Joan of Arc of the Redwoods leaning on her cane, shoulder to shoulder with Isaiah Broom. And Hell Hanover was giving Gil Singer a hard time, trying his best to work his way onto the scene. The cameras that had captured the news conference on the steps of the middle school were set up and rolling. Cork knew a circus when he saw one. And he was glad that for right now, it was Schanno who had to play ringmaster.
A pickup truck marked TAMARACK COUNTY SEARCH AND RESCUE nosed through the crowd. Gil Singer pulled aside a barricade and let it through. When it had been parked, Agent Owen began pulling diving gear from the back.
Earl left the dock and approached the Land Cruiser. Schanno, when he saw him coming, stepped to the Land Cruiser, too.
“Is your partner going to need a hand?” the sheriff asked.
“Mark’s fine. He’d prefer to go over the area under the dock himself. He knows best what he’s looking for.” Earl leaned an arm on the open door of the Land Cruiser. He wore a white shirt that looked freshly ironed and a blue tie that was tightly knotted. “How are you feeling, Mr. Lindstrom?”
“I’ve been better.”
Earl looked to the sheriff. “You’ll be taking him down to the department for a complete statement?”
“When he’s ready.”
Ed Larson called out, “Wally?” He beckoned the sheriff with a wave of his hand and Schanno headed over.
“Mind if I ask you a few questions?” Agent Earl asked Lindstrom. He pulled a cigarette from a pack in his shirt pocket, then offered one to Lindstrom.
“I don’t smoke.”
“O’Connor?”
“Gave them up.”
Earl shrugged and lit his cigarette with a lighter. “Mr. Lindstrom, you said the note was left on the windshield of your vehicle at the school.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t there before you parked?”
“I’d have seen it.”
“Probably. But sometimes people drive with parking tickets on their windshield and don’t seem to notice. I’ve done it myself.”
“It wasn’t there.”
Earl turned to Cork. “You parked next to Mr. Lindstrom, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see the note?”
“No.”
“Could it have been there and you just didn’t notice?”
“It’s possible. But I’m more inclined to believe someone put it there when that firecracker went off. It was a good diversion.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” Earl took a long, meditative draw on his cigarette. “Why did you park in back, Mr. O’Connor?”
“It’s okay to call me Cork. No room out front.”
“Ah. Sure. And according to your statement, you followed Mr. Lindstrom because you thought he might be in some trouble. What made you think that?”
“The way he looked when he read the note. And I saw him take a handgun from his briefcase.”
“If you thought there might be trouble, especially trouble involving the possible use of a firearm, why didn’t you alert the sheriff?”
“Wally and his men were already gone by then.”
“Of course. Mind if I take a look at that firearm of yours, Mr. Lindstrom?”
The handgun was sitting on the seat beside him. Lindstrom handed it to Agent Earl, who dropped his cigarette on the pavement and ground it out.
“Colt Commander forty-five. Nice piece.”
“It was the sidearm I carried as an officer in the navy.”
“Not standard military issue,” Earl observed.
