ankles as well. The Fitzgerald woman and her boy had black hoods over their heads. The O’Connor woman was blindfolded with a red bandanna. It looked as if Bridger had torn a strip of material from the O’Connor boy’s shirt and bound it over the kid’s eyes. All the prisoners-he balked at thinking of them in that way, but he couldn’t find a more delicate word-had been separated from one another and bound with tight loops of nylon rope to the uprights that supported the roof beams. The two boys had their heads down and appeared to be sleeping. The women knew he was there. Their heads were cocked and they were listening. He surveyed the room and found no evidence of water or food. Hadn’t Bridger fed them? Given them water? Had he even given them a chance to relieve themselves?
LePere knelt beside the O’Connor woman. She tried to pull away.
“Easy,” he said. “I’m just going to take the tape off your mouth.”
The duct tape stuck pretty well, and she grimaced as he pulled it off.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “You had anything to eat or drink?”
“No.”
“How about going to the bathroom?”
“We’ve been like this since we got here.” She seemed torn between anger and relief.
“All right,” he said.
The boys were awake now, their heads up.
“Look, I’m going to take the tape off your mouths so you can eat something and drink a little water. If you have to relieve yourselves, let me know and we’ll take care of that, too.” He went to the O’Connor boy. “This’ll hurt a bit, son.”
The boy made a sound-“Owww”-as the tape came off.
“There. That better?”
The boy didn’t answer. It was clear that he was scared shitless. LePere could tell from the urine smell that he’d wet his pants already. Well, there was nothing that could be done about that now.
He moved to the next boy, the Fitzgerald kid. He was surprised to find him quivering uncontrollably, and the smell of urine was even stronger on him. LePere lifted the hood over the boy’s head just enough so that he could remove the tape from his mouth. “You okay?” he asked.
The boy’s breathing was deep, labored. LePere noticed a fruity smell on his breath. The boy said nothing, but his mother began making a ruckus. LePere lifted her hood a bit and pulled the tape off her mouth.
“He’s diabetic,” she gasped. “He needs insulin.”
“Ah, shit. How often does he have to have it?”
“Three times a day. And it’s been almost two days now since he had his last injection. Please, he needs insulin, and he needs it soon.”
“Christ.” LePere stepped back, trying to figure the best course. It wasn’t supposed to be this complicated. Why didn’t Bridger know about the boy’s condition? Or maybe he did and just didn’t care. He was a man LePere was disliking more with every minute.
“All right, let’s get some food and water in you,” he growled.
“Could we go to the bathroom first?” the O’Connor woman asked.
“Everyone need to go?”
“Yes,” the Fitzgerald woman replied.
One at a time, he untied them from the wooden uprights, cut free their hands, and took each for a turn out into the clearing. He handed over the roll of toilet paper and allowed a minute or two of privacy. He told them to call when they were finished, and he warned each that he had a gun and he would use it. They gave him no trouble. When they’d all taken their turns, he bound their ankles, then went to his truck and brought back food and water.
“Leave your blindfolds and hoods in place,” he instructed them. “I don’t want to see anything exposed except mouths.” He opened the jug and they passed it around and drank, especially the Fitzgerald boy. He gave them food, dry bread and bologna that, with the exception of the Fitzgerald boy, they ate greedily.
“You’re not like the other one,” the Fitzgerald woman said.
“Who?”
“Your partner. He’s a son of a bitch.”
“I can be, too. Just don’t test me.”
“I feel sick,” the Fitzgerald boy said.
“I’ll get your damn medicine, okay?”
“It’s not too late to end this,” the O’Connor woman said.
“It’s been too late for a dozen years.”
“What does that mean?”
“Forget it. Look-where do I get this insulin?”
“I keep it in the cupboard in the downstairs bathroom,” the rich woman said.
“I can’t go near your place.”
“Any pharmacy.”
“Right. Soon as the police know your boy’s diabetic, they’ll be waiting for me when I walk in the door. Forget it. I’ll figure it out. Everybody, hands behind you.”
“Do you have to-” the Fitzgerald woman began.
“Just shut up and do it.” He pulled her arms behind her and taped her wrists, then scooted her against the post where she’d been tied before. He bound her in place and taped her mouth. He did the same with each of the others.
“I’ll be back,” he said. “You all just sit tight and don’t make any trouble. This’ll all be over soon.”
He left the water jug and the bag of food and headed back toward where he’d parked his truck among the trees at the edge of the clearing. The tall, dry stalks of foxtail and timothy snapped with a sound like small bones breaking as he pushed through. He turned back once. The cabin was a black square against a dark wall of trees that rose up into a sky grown murky with the approach of night. He was tired. The weight of what he was involved in seemed to have grown enormous. In addition to everything else, now he had the sick boy to worry about. Christ, maybe he should just let it be. What was the boy to him?
The thunderheads he’d seen earlier had continued to mount. Now there was lightning far to the northwest. As he opened the door of his pickup, he heard the low rumble of distant thunder, but he didn’t pay it much heed. He was deep in thought. Where the hell am I going to get insulin?
31
INSIDE THE HOUSE ON GOOSEBERRY LANE, it was a day out of place, out of time. Even amid all that was familiar, everything felt wrong. The quiet of Sunday afternoon, usually so welcome, seemed drawn taut, wrapped around something sinister. Rose set out cold cuts for supper. No one ate. Cork wondered if he should head back to Lindstrom’s, but what good could he do there? They had no answers. They offered no hope. And Schanno had promised that if anything developed, he’d let Cork know.
Near sunset, Cork stepped out and sat on the porch swing. Annie came, too, and sat with him. Rose drifted out, leaned against the railing, and stared west where thunderheads stumbled across the sky. Jenny joined them finally and stood on the porch steps with her arms crossed.
“I have to do something,” she said. “I can’t just wait anymore.”
“The question is what to do,” Cork replied.
“I want to kill somebody.”
“No, you don’t, Jenny,” Rose said.
Jenny uncrossed her arms. “I do. I want to kill the people who’d do this kind of thing.”
“Do you think they’re all right, Dad?” Annie asked.
“Yes.”
Jenny challenged him. “How do you know that?”
“In the absence of proof, you believe.”
