“Two million? I can’t get that kind of money in twenty-four hours. It’s Sunday, for God’s sake.”
“Twenty-four hours.”
“I want to talk to my wife and son. I want to know they’re all right.”
“How ‘bout I just send you a finger? Or maybe I do a little impromptu plastic surgery on that honker of hers. Send you the leftovers. Twenty-four hours, Lindstrom.”
Cork whispered quickly, “Are Jo and Stevie with him?”
It was too late. The line clicked, buzzed, and the voice was gone.
“Did we get a trace?” Schanno asked.
“Just a minute.” Special Agent Margaret Kay of the FBI held up a cautionary finger. She stared at another FBI agent, Arnie Gooden, who was one of the resident agents out of Duluth. Gooden held a cellular telephone to his ear.
“Got it,” Gooden said a moment later. “Pay phone. Harland Liquors, County Road 11.”
“You know where that is?” Special Agent Kay asked Wally Schanno.
“Near Yellow Lake,” Schanno replied. “It’ll take fifteen minutes to get a cruiser there.”
“Is anyone at the liquor store you could call?”
“They’re closed Sundays.”
“He’ll be gone by the time your men get there,” Kay said. “But he may have left evidence behind, or maybe somebody saw him.” She turned to Agent Gooden. “Did you hear that voice?”
Gooden nodded. “Electronic mask of some kind.”
BCA Agent David Earl, who stood near the window, said, “We’ll get the tape down to the lab in St. Paul right away, see if we can get anything from it.”
“Can you get the money?” Cork asked Lindstrom.
Karl Lindstrom gave Cork a desperate look. “You think I keep that kind of cash around here? In a cookie jar, maybe?”
“I didn’t mean it that way, Karl.”
Lindstrom sat down, not by choice, it appeared. His legs just buckled. “Two million dollars. I don’t have that kind of cash anywhere. Everything I have is tied up in that damn mill. Even if it weren’t, I couldn’t get at it until tomorrow at the earliest. Christ, it’s Sunday.”
“What about your wife?” Cork asked. His own legs weren’t feeling too steady, and he needed badly to hear something that offered hope.
Lindstrom shook his head. “Prenup. I can’t touch her money. Jesus. And I was the one who insisted on the goddamn thing.”
“Mr. Lindstrom,” Agent Kay said, approaching him. “Even if you had the money and gave it, that would be no guarantee of the safety of your wife and son.”
Lindstrom looked up at her.
“Meeting a kidnapper’s demands seldom results in the safe return of those who’ve been taken.”
Agent Kay had come from the Minneapolis office with a cadre of other agents. Some of the agents were at Lindstrom’s. Some were at the sheriff’s department, where the FBI had established an operations and communications center. Special Agent Kay was a tall, large-boned woman with hands that reminded Cork of catchers’ mitts. She painted her nails a delicate pink. She wore tan slacks, a beige blouse, brown flats. She had, she’d informed them earlier, supervised investigation in nearly two dozen kidnap cases.
Now Cork asked, “Have you ever been involved in a kidnap for ransom?”
“No,” she admitted. “But I do know the statistics.”
Lindstrom stared at her. “Do you really think I care about the money? My God, if they asked for ten million, I’d give it to them if there was even the slightest chance of getting my family back safely.” Lindstrom’s eyes burned into her. “You’ve been here all night and I haven’t heard one good suggestion from you so far.”
“The state crime lab in St. Paul is working on the ransom note even as we speak. We’ll make sure the tape of the call is analyzed immediately. I’ve communicated with Quantico and they’re working up a profile of the kidnapper. With the help of Agent Earl and your sheriff, Schanno, we’ve already arranged to put under surveillance a number of likely suspects.”
“Like who?” Lindstrom challenged.
“I’d rather not say specifically. If we end up needing to negotiate for the return of your families, we have a trained negotiator who can be here in person within an hour.”
“Do you have any idea where my wife and boy are?” Lindstrom asked.
“No, Mr. Lindstrom, I do not.”
“Or who has them or how to get them back?”
Her answer was to say nothing.
“See? You people are almost worse than no help at all.” Lindstrom stood up and headed toward the telephone. “I’m going to call Tom Conklin.”
“Who?” Kay asked.
“Chairman of the board of Fitzgerald Shipping Company. My wife’s family sold the business, but Grace is still on the board. Maybe Conklin can help me get the ransom money.”
“Do what you feel you have to, Mr. Lindstrom. We’ll do what we need to as well.”
Lindstrom wheeled. “If you fuck up, if you cause my family to be harmed in any way, I’ll…” He seemed at a loss for a way to finish.
“I understand, Mr. Lindstrom.”
Schanno stepped up next to Cork and put a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Look, Cork, there’s nothing you can do here right now. I imagine Rose and the girls will need you at home.”
“Yeah.”
“Get some sleep if you can.”
“Call me if…”
“I’ll call you.”
Cork started to say something to Karl Lindstrom, but the man was angrily punching at the numbers on his telephone. Cork left quietly.
He stepped out into early sunlight, into air that smelled of evergreen and clean water. An evidence team was canvassing the grounds, looking for cigarette butts, footprints, anything that might have been dropped or thoughtlessly discarded. He walked down to the shoreline of Grace Cove and onto the dock where Lindstrom’s big sailboat sat mirrored in calm water. The trees-mostly red pine and black spruce-walled the inlet, isolating it from the rest of the lake. It was an empty place Karl Lindstrom had chosen for his home. That was exactly what people came here for these days. Escape. Yet Lindstrom had escaped nothing. Something angry seemed to have followed him, something that had divided the county and now threatened what Cork held most dear. Not Lindstrom’s fault, he knew, but he couldn’t help resenting the outsiders that were so rapidly changing the face of all he loved.
He knew he was going to cry. Tears of helplessness, of anger and fear and desperation and despair. He kept his back to the house where the other men might have been watching. When he was done, he walked to his Bronco and headed home.
Rose sat alone at the kitchen table. She was dressed in a beige chenille robe, her road dust-colored hair unbrushed, rosary beads gripped in her right hand. She studied Cork as he stepped in the back door.
Cork walked to the coffeemaker, poured a cup of what Rose had made.
“They called,” he said. “They’re demanding two million dollars.”
Her eyes fluttered as if she’d been struck in the face by a hard, icy wind. “For them all?”
“Of course for them all.”
“They have Jo and Stevie? You’re sure?”
“I’m not sure of anything, Rose.” He sipped his coffee. It was cold. He didn’t care.
“They?” Rose asked.
“What?”
“You said ‘they’ have Stevie and Jo.”
“They. Him. We don’t know.”
The rosary beads clattered softly against the tabletop. Cork walked to the table and sat down. Rose had dark circles under her eyes.
