newspaperman had a lot to be nervous about.
But what about Joan of Arc of the Redwoods? Or Isaiah Broom? Two million could finance the saving of a lot of trees after the fight over Our Grandfathers was finished.
And wasn’t it possible, also, as Schanno had speculated, that Eco-Warrior was simply a cover for an old grievance? Or maybe now for simple greed?
“You’re trespassing,” LePere said at his back.
Cork turned. LePere had a glass in his hand. Water with ice.
“Sorry, John. I’m just trying to figure it.”
“Some things are beyond figuring.”
Cork took the water. “It’s my wife and my boy. What am I supposed to do?”
LePere looked away. “I can’t help you with that one.”
Cork drank the water and handed the glass back. “The wind’s up.”
A breeze had risen, quite suddenly. The water on the cove began to ripple. Far west of Iron Lake, thunderheads began to mount.
“Rain maybe,” LePere said. “Finally.”
“Thanks for the water. If you think of anything, anything that seems like it might help, you’ll let me know?” LePere only stared at him, and finally Cork started back toward his Bronco.
“O’Connor,” LePere called after a dozen steps.
Cork turned back.
“Good luck.”
Cork got in the Bronco and started away. There was a lot on his mind, but he found himself puzzling over a small detail. On the way to the dock, he’d passed
LePere’s garbage can. The lid was off. Yellow jackets and flies buzzed over what was inside. Paper, coffee grounds, discarded food. The odd thing was that there wasn’t any glass. In Cork’s experience, alcoholics generated lots of empty bottles.
30
JOHN LEPERE WATCHED O’Connor’s old Bronco head off between the pines.
Damn.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. When O’Connor was sheriff, he’d always treated LePere decently, even in the days of the heaviest drinking. The man was part Shinnob, too, so he understood the difficulty of growing up mixed blood. LePere was sorry for the turn of events. Nothing was anything like he’d expected. Still, he told himself as he stepped back into his cabin, nothing really terrible had come of it. If it all ultimately went the way Bridger had planned, O’Connor would have his family back together in a couple of days. It would give him a greater appreciation of how precious were the people he loved, and all it would cost him in the end was a bit of worry. To LePere, who’d lost everyone he loved, that seemed a small price.
He took his field glasses from the hook beside the back door and stepped outside again. Across the cove, Lindstrom’s home was a busy place. The shoreline was still crawling with uniformed officers, as were the dock and the woods. They’d come across Blueberry Creek, trespassed on LePere’s land. That was fine. They’d find nothing, and they’d turn away. Although the ransom note had clearly said no cops, Bridger had called this one, too. “There’ll be cops,” he’d said. “A shitload. Don’t let that scare you. We’ll have them fooled. They’ll be looking for that Eco- Warrior, and there’s nothing to connect you with him. You don’t give them just cause, they can’t do a thing. Just be cool, my man. Just be cool.”
He returned the field glasses to their hook and went to the closet in his bedroom. From the shelf above the hangers, he took down a sleeping bag and a canvas pup tent rolled and bagged. He put these on the front seat of his truck. Back in the cabin, he filled a paper sack with food-bologna, bread, peanut butter, strawberry jam, American cheese, and apples. He dropped a butter knife in, as well, and a roll of toilet paper. He put the sack in the truck beside the other things. Finally, he filled two one-gallon plastic milk jugs with tap water and took them to the truck. After he’d locked the doors to his cabin, he headed the truck up the road. He pulled over when he reached the deputy stationed at the highway.
“There’s cops trespassing all over my property.”
The deputy took off his hat and wiped the sweat from the band. “Sorry about that, Mr. LePere. Would you like to talk to the sheriff?”
“No. Tell him he’s welcome to trespass all he wants. I’ll be back when it looks like I can have my privacy again.”
The deputy eyed the gear in the front seat. “Sorry we drove you out.”
LePere replied with an unhappy grunt and hit the highway. He breathed easier once he’d left the cove behind. All those cops made him nervous. He could hear Bridger’s voice in his head, “Just be cool.” It seemed easy for Bridger. All of it. LePere thought about the gun in the log home and how he’d been afraid Bridger would really use it. Which would have been truly tragic. But then, tragedy happened, didn’t it? He’d never asked for or deserved the tragedy that had been his own life. As far as he could tell, it struck like lightning, without warning or just cause. Still, it would have been hard seeing it happen to the O’Connor woman or her boy. He knew her. He’d seen her sometimes when he was in court. She represented the Iron Lake Ojibwe, had represented them even before they had all that casino money. It was too bad she’d stumbled into the middle of all this. Too bad she had to be taken. But Bridger was probably right. They couldn’t be left behind. And there was no harm done. When the money came, they’d be free again.
He followed the road, the old logging trail, toward the ancient trappers’ cabin that stood just outside the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. The old road was never used, and even if it were, the cabin couldn’t be seen from it. You had to know where to look. LePere knew. And Bridger, now that LePere had shown him.
Dark was coming on as John LePere pulled his truck off the road, through a gap in the pines, and into a small clearing. Bridger was waiting beside his dusty green Econoline van.
“About time,” Bridger said.
LePere stepped from his truck. “Any word on the money?”
“He’ll get it, all right. I offered to send him a couple of body parts as incentive.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Damn straight I would. People do just fine without their pinkies, Chief.”
LePere nodded toward the cabin, a run-down affair with a gaping doorway and no windows. “How’re they doing?”
“‘How’re they doing?’” Bridger’s tone mocked him. “They’re alive, Chief, and that’s all you need to worry about. I’ll spell you in the morning, after I’ve called Lindstrom with the next set of instructions.” A long growl came from his stomach. “Goddamn, I’m hungry. Here.” He handed LePere the handgun.
“What do I need this for? They’re tied up, aren’t they?”
“Insurance. In the SEALs, I learned the most valuable lesson of my life. Never underestimate the likelihood everything’s going to go to hell, and be ready for it. They’re all yours. You can do whatever you want with Lindstrom’s woman, but don’t touch the other one. I’ve already marked her as mine.”
“What are you talking about?”
Bridger laughed. “Relax, Chief. Have a little fun.” He gave LePere a hearty slap on the shoulder, and he got into his van. “See you in the morning.”
He drove off, the noise of the van shattering the peace of an otherwise quiet evening.
The cabin was ancient. It was old even when he’d stumbled onto it with his father one day while they were searching for blueberries. The logs were cedar, the roof of cedar shakes. The door had long ago been lost and the chinking weathered away, but even in the worst heat of the day, the cabin remained cool inside, shaded by the pines at the clearing’s edge and open to the breeze.
The drought had turned the long grasses in the clearing to dry stalks, and they broke with a brittle crackle as LePere made his way toward the gaping doorway. Inside, the cabin was dark and dead quiet. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. He saw that Bridger had left the duct tape in place around everyone’s wrists and had taped their
