Mountains, Jo saw flashes of light. A minute later, she heard the distant growl of thunder. She couldn’t see Stevie at first. Then he emerged from where the dark of the front porch had swallowed him, and he ran back to the fish house.
“It’s open,” he told them.
“Inside the house,” LePere said, this time addressing Stevie directly through the door, “there’s a kitchen area. As you face the sink, there are drawers on the right side.” He paused and glanced at Jo. “Does he know right and left?”
“He knows.”
“Okay, Stevie. In the top drawer on the right-hand side is a ring of keys. There’s a key for the lock on this door. Bring the ring and I’ll help you find the right key. Okay?”
“Okay,” Stevie said.
Atop the crate at the window, Jo watched her son cross the yard again. The light of the moon gave him his shadow as a companion.
“How much time do we have before Bridger comes back?” Grace asked.
“Not much,” LePere replied. “How’s he doing?”
Jo said, “I can’t tell. I think he’s in the house, but I don’t see a light on.”
LePere slapped the wall angrily. “The switch is in an odd place. Damn, I should have explained that to him.”
“Find it, Stevie,” Jo whispered.
As soon as she said it, she wanted to take it back. For she saw headlights swing toward the cove from far up through the trees near the highway.
“He’s back,” she said. “Bridger is back.”
At that moment, the light in the house came on, making the place like a bright beacon in the dark on Purgatory Cove.
44
AGENTS OWEN AND EARL of the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension stayed at the bridge over the Upper Goose Flowage to help the FBI oversee processing of the crime scene. Wally Schanno and Lucky Knudsen coordinated a search of the area that included Goose Lake and Little Red Cedar Lake. Both lakes had resorts and public campgrounds on their shores, a lot of ways to access the water. Everyone agreed that the kidnapper had probably made his escape via one of the lakes and had driven the back roads from there. What they didn’t say was that a search would take time and, even if it uncovered something, would probably be too late to do any good.
There was no reason for Cork to linger. With Lindstrom and Special Agent Margaret Kay, he returned to Grace Cove in the meager hope that the kidnapper might make contact again. Also, it kept him from having to go home where Rose and his daughters would be waiting and hoping. Cork didn’t know how to face them, what to say.
Kay made calls on her own cellular, reporting. She looked drawn and tired. She made a final phone call and spoke in a soft, loving tone. Cork thought about the gold band on her finger. She’d put her own life on hold, had gone without sleep, had done her best to bring about a safe resolution. Cork knew it wasn’t her fault, the way things worked out. The phone in Lindstrom’s living room was still set up for a trap-and-trace. Agent Arnie Gooden sat near it with his recording equipment ready. He looked drowsy. Lindstrom had slumped into an easy chair, and he sat staring at the silent phone. He seemed dazed. Exhausted. Empty. Cork felt the same way. So tired he could barely see straight. It wasn’t just exhaustion, he knew. It was what happened when you were empty of everything, when the last bit of hope had finally run out of you. It was like sucking exhaust from a tailpipe. All you wanted to do was give up, close your eyes, and sink into whatever would keep you from thinking. Sleep. Death. Whatever.
“I need to call home,” he said.
Lindstrom raised his eyes slowly. “And tell them what?”
“I don’t know, Karl. Okay if I use the phone in your office?”
Lindstrom gave a small shrug. Cork took that as a yes. He walked down the hallway. The big house and its grounds were nearly empty. To maintain security for the ransom drop, the media had been cleared away before the caravan of cop cars had left to follow Cork and Lindstrom. Except for one officer posted in a cruiser in the driveway, all the law enforcement officers present earlier had been called to help search the area along the Upper Goose Flowage. In the quiet of the house, he could hear thunder rumbling in from the west. On the way back from the drop site, he’d heard a weather report on the radio. A storm was on its way, bringing heavy rain, the first in months. He didn’t care.
Cork sat at the cherry wood desk in Lindstrom’s office. His head ached, a pounding that threatened to blind him. Three times he reached for the phone and three times he drew his hand back. He had no idea what to say to Rose, the girls.
I couldn’t save them. They’re gone. They’re gone forever.
He couldn’t say that over the phone. Nor could he yet bring himself to leave Lindstrom’s home.
The clock on the wall read ten to midnight. Cork wanted to turn the hands back, do it all differently, be in all the right places at all the right times. He wanted a second chance at the last few days. The last few years. He wanted not to have failed them, all the people he loved.
His eyes drifted over the photographs mounted on the wall around the clock. Lindstrom in a naval officer’s uniform aboard a military vessel of some kind. Another with Lindstrom and Grace Fitzgerald together on a boat- clear blue water, a great white sail full of wind. In another, he recognized a very young Grace Fitzgerald, a teenager. Recognized her because of her distinctive nose. She stood next to a white-haired man. They had their arms around one another, smiling. Father and daughter? Cork wondered. They were posed on the deck of a great ship. High above them, visible on the forward mast, was a big, glowing F. Cork wondered if the old man were still alive. No. Otherwise, he’d have given Lindstrom the ransom money. Grace Fitzgerald’s father was lucky. He was dead. Beyond feeling loss. Beyond being hurt.
Christ, stop it. Cork yanked himself back from self-pity. What are you doing? Don’t let go of them yet.
Meloux had said he had a choice. He could keep company with despair or he could choose a different companion.
Cork stood up. He needed to think clearly. He went to the bathroom just down the hallway and closed the door. Turning on the cold water, he splashed his face. He had to get rid of the headache, clear his mind. In the cabinet above the sink, he found a bottle of Excedrin. He shook out a couple of tablets, popped them in his mouth, and swallowed the aspirin with tap water. As he was putting the bottle back, something caught his eye. Syringes. There were a number of them on one of the shelves, each in an individual packet. Next to the syringes was a bottle of medication. Insulin.
Hadn’t Gil Singer told him the only thing stolen from the clinic on the rez had been insulin? Who was the diabetic in Lindstrom’s home?
Cork went to the living room. Gooden had closed his eyes and lay back, sleeping. Kay had settled herself at the dining-room table and had put her head down; she seemed to be napping, too. Lindstrom was still staring at the phone.
Cork held up the bottle and asked Lindstrom in a whisper, “Who?”
“Scott,” Lindstrom replied. He followed Cork’s lead and kept his voice low.
Cork beckoned him to follow, and they went to Lindstrom’s office. Cork closed the door. “Last night, the clinic on the rez was broken into. The only things taken were insulin and syringes.”
Lindstrom thought it over. “For Scott? Why?”
“The kidnapper cared about keeping him alive. He risked a lot to keep your boy alive.”
“Until tonight,” Lindstrom pointed out dismally. He sat at his desk, mirroring none of Cork’s enthusiasm.
The thunder was growing louder. It followed very quickly the lightning flashes visible through the window. The wind was up, lifting the curtains high. Cork went on thinking out loud as he paced the room. “It’s probably someone who knows the rez clinic, someone who’s been treated there.”
“Indian?” Lindstrom said, considering. “Isaiah Broom?”
“Not Broom,” Cork said. “He’s still in custody. And he was arrested heading off to fight a forest fire. That
