freeze and thaw, hundreds of thousands of harsh, battering storms had left their mark on the ridge, the cumulative effect visible in the talus-great blocks of stone broken from the sheer walls-that lay in a formidable jumble along the base of the cliffs. Someday, the marker predicted, perhaps a million years hence, the ridge would no longer exist.
The geologists spoke about time as if it were an endless, incomprehensible quantity. To those who measured time in breaths and heartbeats, it wasn’t hard to grasp at all. And John LePere, as he led the others over the talus at the base of Purgatory Ridge, was afraid time was running out.
When he guided the others toward the ridge, he’d thought he could find his way easily, could lead them swiftly and unseen over rock he’d known since childhood, along paths he and Billy had followed hundreds of times to the other side of the ridge. However, as a child he’d known enough to be well afraid when the waves rose up like raging giants and swept the cliffs clean of everything that was not rock, and he’d never dared to be there during a storm. As soon as he reached the base of the black cliffs, he knew he’d made a mistake. He would have to use the flashlight. If Bridger and his cohort were looking, they’d see the beam across the cove. He didn’t like it, but by then, he had no other choice.
He moved ahead of the others a few yards, then turned back and lit the way for them to see. The Fitzgerald woman and her son were directly behind him. The boy Stevie and his mother brought up the rear. Those two held hands whenever possible. More often than not, however, they were forced to travel single file along narrow shelves and between huge rock fragments. Along the south side of the ridge that faced the cove, they made good progress. But as soon as they rounded the chest of the ridge, they were exposed fully to whatever the great lake threw at the shore. They slowed to a crawl. The crash of the waves became so loud, it was impossible to be heard. LePere directed them with hand gestures. Many times they had to grasp at a cold, wet face of rock for something to hold to as the lake threatened to sweep them away. LePere, who kept an eye to their backs, watching for any sign that Wesley Bridger was following, had seen a light dashing among the boulders far behind them-far enough, he thought, that if they kept moving, they would make it to the back side of the ridge safely ahead of Bridger.
They traversed the worst of the shoreline without incident and began to cross a broad plate of rock that sloped sharply toward the water. Although the waves couldn’t reach them there, the driving rain made the rock slippery. Twice, LePere lost his footing, and it was only his powerful grip that kept him from sliding into the lake. He concentrated fully on his own crossing, then turned back to the others. They’d all stopped. LePere saw immediately why. The O’Connor boy was in the water. From her own precarious position, his mother tried to lean out to him, to grasp his hand as the swells lifted him and rolled him up the sloping plate. Without a moment of hesitation, LePere retraced his steps, handed the flashlight to Grace Fitzgerald, and went into the lake after Stevie.
The water was ice cold, but LePere barely noticed. He grabbed the boy, who was bobbing in the wake of a swell, and put his right arm firmly around Stevie’s chest. When the next wave swept in, LePere felt the power of the lake lift them both as if they were nothing. He turned before he hit the rock, took the blow fully against his side and shoulder, sparing the boy. The lake tried to tear Stevie from his grasp, but LePere was damned if he’d lose the boy now. He threw his free arm out, groping for a firm hold. His hand grasped a ragged edge, and he clamped his fingers tight around it. He pulled himself up and pushed the boy ahead so that Jo O’Connor could reach him. As soon as Stevie left his arms, the next wave hit and scraped LePere across the rock, facedown. Two more waves manhandled him before he was able to pull himself from the water. He could feel a warm flow of blood down his face. He would have preferred to rest a moment, but even a moment was not something he wanted to waste. He waved them all to move ahead, and he followed.
Grace Fitzgerald now lit the way. When they reached the other side of the ridge, LePere could see the lights from resort cabins along the shoreline a half mile distant. He looked back. The light behind had gained on them significantly. He knew they wouldn’t reach the cabins before Bridger caught up with them.
“Go ahead,” he called to the others.
“What about you?” Jo O’Connor called back.
LePere pointed toward the approaching flashlight beam. “I’ll take care of him. Go on. Just go.”
The women went ahead with their sons. LePere found a boulder that would hide him, and he crouched to spring. As the flashlight beam slid past, he leaped and took the man down. They wrestled briefly on the rock before a gunshot stopped them both. LePere, who lay pressed on top of the man with the flashlight, heard Bridger’s voice speaking at his back.
“Let him up, John.”
LePere stood up. He saw that Bridger held a pistol trained on the women and the boys.
“He was waiting for us,” Jo O’Connor said.
The man who’d followed them pushed up and used his flashlight a moment to search for his handgun. When he found it, he faced the others.
“Karl?” Grace Fitzgerald’s voice was filled with bewilderment.
“Hello, Grace. Hey there, Scott. Good work, Wes,” Lindstrom called to Bridger.
“You know this man?” the woman asked her husband.
“Know him? Hell, I hired him. Look, let’s all go back to LePere’s cozy little place and discuss this. Oh, and by the way, Jo, I’ve got a special surprise for you back there. And for you, too, Stevie. Would you like to see your daddy?”
“Cork’s there?” Jo O’Connor asked.
“He was when I left. And I’m sure he hasn’t gone anywhere.” He waved them off the ridge with his gun. “Let’s go. Time’s wasting.”
48
BRIDGER PUSHED OPEN the fish house door and turned on the light. He stepped aside, and Lindstrom ushered the others in.
When Jo saw Cork, she let out a cry. He sat on the floor, propped against the wall, his shirt drenched with blood. “Oh Jesus, no.” She dropped to her knees beside him.
His eyes fluttered open, and when he saw her, a faint smile came to his lips. “You’re alive.”
They’d taped her wrists behind her again-taped all their wrists-so she couldn’t reach out to him, couldn’t help him in any way. She saw that he’d managed to unbutton his shirt and pull it aside. In his left hand was a folded, bloody handkerchief that he held pressed against his shoulder a few inches above his right nipple.
“How bad?” she asked.
“Just a hole,” Cork whispered. “One little hole.”
Stevie stood near his father, blinking as he tried to comprehend all the blood and his father’s helplessness.
“Hey, buddy,” Cork said. It was barely more than a mumble. He tried to lift his right arm toward his son, but the move made him groan, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the pain.
“I don’t understand, Karl,” Grace Fitzgerald said. She stood against the wall with Scott beside her.
“Sit down, all of you. Wes, see to the boats. Let me know when you’re ready. And that gun you have. I’ll take it.”
“Why?” Bridger asked darkly.
“Because it’s unregistered, and we’re going to wipe it clean of prints and leave it in Mr. LePere’s house. When they find it, they’ll do ballistics and discover that it’s the same gun that was fired in my home on Grace Cove. Further evidence of Mr. LePere’s guilt.” He held out his hand, and Bridger-a bit reluctantly, it seemed to Jo-yielded him the weapon.
After Bridger made his exit, Lindstrom leaned casually against one of the tables where LePere’s father had cleaned fish. “You know, Grace, I loved you once, really loved you. I’d have died for you, you know that?” He stuffed the handgun Bridger had given him into the waist of his pants, but he kept the other pointed at his prisoners.
“I don’t believe it,” she replied.
He shrugged. “Fine. Whatever. I did kill for you once.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your beloved Edward. It wasn’t the lake that got him. It was Bridger. At my direction.”
