Purgatory Ridge (16 page)

He’d come home late with Stevie asleep in his arms, and he’d explained that they’d hiked through the woods to visit Meloux.

All this time?
she’d asked.

He went on, explaining that they’d also visited Harold Loomis, and he related his talk with the night watchman. When he finished, he looked at her as if he expected praise because he’d solved the mystery of Charlie Warren at the mill.

Instead she’d asked,
What do you think you’re doing, Cork?
She hadn’t meant her voice to be so cold, but it froze the happy look in his eyes and killed the smile on his lips.

She closed her eyes and heard her words again.

“Jesus, Jo,” she whispered miserably. “What were you thinking?”

She felt sick with regret. She knew she had no one to blame but herself and no reason for the coldness except her own fear.

She leaned across the moonlit room and spoke softly, “Cork, I’m so sorry.”

She wished that instead of chiding him, she’d been able to tell him how afraid she was, how everything still felt so fragile between them. The truth was that she didn’t trust it was love that held their marriage together. She couldn’t believe that after such grave pain as they’d given one another love could ever grow strong again.

That evening, with Stevie in his arms, Cork had only confirmed what she’d already guessed. He missed being a cop. For a long time, she’d sensed he was restless. She hadn’t been sure what it was until the bombing at Lindstrom’s mill had brought it into the open. It was so obvious now. She wanted to be able to support him if he chose to run for sheriff, but the prospect of an election concerned her, for selfish reasons.

More than a decade before when she’d come with Cork back to his hometown, she was the first woman to hang an attorney’s shingle in Tamarack County. She’d struggled long and hard against a lot of prejudices directed at her as a woman and an outsider. She’d succeeded in establishing a good practice and an unimpeachable
legal reputation, but it hadn’t been without some cost. Because she’d often taken on clients no other attorney in the county would touch—among them, the Iron Lake Ojibwe—she frequently found herself at odds with the prevailing sentiments in Aurora. Although she felt respected, she also felt that most people held her at a distance, just waiting for the day when she’d screw up royally. What no one knew—no one except Cork—was that she’d already blown it big time. There was a long black moment in her history in Aurora, but she’d been able to hide it for almost two years. She was afraid an election, especially a bitter one, might dredge up that history for public display. In another, larger place, her mistakes would be little more than a footnote in the news. In a place like Aurora, they could wash her life away. She and Cork never spoke about that part of their lives, their separation and what had precipitated it. They had—by tacit mutual consent, Jo believed—agreed to move on and let the past be buried. She was afraid that if Aurora knew the whole of her history, she and Cork would be forced to face the past straight-on. Under such scrutiny, could any marriage long survive?

All these things she wanted to tell Cork, but she was afraid to begin a conversation whose end she couldn’t foresee.

She left the rocker, walked around the bed, and knelt near her husband. He was such a good man, so different from any other she’d ever known. Softer in a lot of ways. When she’d first met him, he’d been a cop on Chicago’s South Side. He’d seen more than his share of brutal things, yet there was something good and beautiful at the heart of him that hadn’t been touched
by the brutality. Whenever she’d looked into his eyes, it was as if she could see all the way down to that beautiful heart.

His eyes were closed now, his breathing a little irregular. He turned, mumbled in his dreaming. Jo reached out and touched his cheek. In a voice so soft he could not possibly have heard, she promised, “I’ll try, Cork. I swear to you, I’ll try.”

H
E DREAMED OF HIS BROTHER
alone in the hold of the
Teasdale
, swaying in deep currents as if he were dancing in an empty ballroom, and John LePere, when he woke, found himself weeping. He didn’t give himself over to the fresh grief the dream brought with it but rose immediately in the gray of first light, hit the cool, gunmetal water of Iron Lake, and swam out his emotion. By the time the sun had risen fully, he felt nearly empty and almost clean.

He was on the road by seven
A.M
., winding his way down Highway 1 toward the north shore. He cruised through Finland, hit Highway 61, and headed south—across the Baptism River at Tettagouche, past Shovel Point and Palisade Head, past the big taconite processing plant at Silver Bay. The sun was hazy and copper colored. Under it, Lake Superior had taken on an unsettling hue and seemed to have assumed a foul mood as well. A strong wind blew out of the southeast.
The water was full of whitecaps. Not a good day for a dive, but LePere was determined.

As he entered the tunnel beneath Purgatory Ridge, he poured the last of the coffee from his thermos and swallowed it down. When he broke into the light on the other side, he slowed, took a sharp left onto the narrow lane, and headed through the poplars down to Purgatory Cove.

He parked his truck at the house and got out. The southeasterly wind funneled through the opening to the cove, pushing the water against the rocky beach. The
Anne Marie
rocked restlessly at her mooring. LePere headed to the house, unlocked the door, and went in.

Bridger’s accusation the day before—that LePere never let anyone enter—was true. No one but LePere had been inside since Billy died. As much as possible, he’d kept the rooms exactly as they’d been before the event that had destroyed his life. The stove was an old cast iron wood burner and was also the only source of heat. The table and chairs had been made by his father from birch trees that grew among the hills on the other side of the highway. His mother’s careful needlepoint, done in the years before Billy was born, hung framed on the walls. In the bedroom that had been first his parents’ and then his mother’s alone, the chest of drawers was empty, but on top, among the old jars and bottles that had contained the lotions and scents she’d once used, sat a photograph in a gold frame. A wedding photo. The man was half LePere’s age but had LePere’s strong, stocky build and black hair. The young woman had beautiful Indian features, and the shine in her dark eyes was evidence of a happiness LePere could barely remember in her.

Whenever he stayed in the cabin overnight, LePere slept in the room he’d shared with Billy. There was a collection of agates on a small bookcase, the prizes they’d found along the lake shore and had chosen not to sell to the souvenir shops. On Billy’s bunk was a first baseman’s mitt, a gift LePere had sent from Cleveland his first voyage on the
Teasdale
. Over the years, LePere had kept the mitt well oiled. On the wall, in a wood-burned frame he’d made himself, Billy had hung a photograph of his big brother standing on the deck of the huge ore carrier, the forecastle rising in the background. The future had looked hopeful in those days, and LePere had a big grin slapped across his young face.

Twice a month, he changed all the linen, dusted all the surfaces, shook out the rugs, and swept the floors. Every fall before winter set in, he drained the pipes. Every spring, he took note of what needed painting or repair and he saw to it. He’d had good offers and could have sold the place easily, but he had no intention of selling. To John LePere, the cabin and the cove on which it stood in the shadow of Purgatory Ridge were beyond value.

He’d made concessions over the years. The cabin now had a microwave oven, a coffeemaker, and a cordless telephone. He kept the refrigerator and food shelves modestly stocked. That morning, he started coffee dripping and went out to the fish house to fill his diving tanks from the compressor and to load his boat. He knew Bridger was right. Diving alone was risky. No, it was more than that. It was stupidly dangerous. But what he’d seen and filmed the day before had fired him up. He had to retrieve the camera. He couldn’t wait for
Bridger. With an eye to safety, he stowed backup of all his equipment, including an extra dry suit, in a locker below deck. He returned to the cabin to fill his thermos with hot coffee, then locked the door and went down to the
Anne Marie
. He cast off the lines and backed the boat out into the cove. At last, he headed through the passage between the rocks and into the open water of the lake. As soon as he left the protection of the rocks, the wind and waves hit the boat. He turned the bow of the
Anne Marie
south by southeast and headed toward the Apostles, where the truth lay more than twenty fathoms deep.

There were times, LePere knew, when Bridger believed him to be a little crazy. LePere might have believed so, too, if he hadn’t been through the ordeal of the sinking. An experience like that changed a man. No one who hadn’t been there would understand. And no one who had been there was alive except John Sailor LePere.

That night, more than a decade before, after the stern had sailed off into the storm and the bow had sunk beneath the waves, LePere curled himself into a ball on the raft. His back was against Pete Swanson, who lay still, those three words—“I blew it”—spilling from his lips. Skip Jurgenson, the third man on the raft, dug into the storage compartment, pulled out a hand flare, and lit it.

“John.” He nudged LePere. “Warm up whatever you can. Come on, John.”

LePere rolled over and sat up.

“Hold this.” Jurgenson handed him the flare. “Don’t let it drip on you. It’ll burn like hell.”

Jurgenson reached back into the storage compartment
and brought out a flare gun and a flashlight. He shot off one of the flares.

“You wasted it,” LePere told him, although he didn’t much care. “In this weather, who could see it?”

Jurgenson hunkered back down. “Think anybody aft made it off?”

LePere didn’t answer.

“Think anybody knows we’re here?”

LePere thought about Orin Grange trying to send a message on a dead radio. He stared at the flare burning in his hands and decided there was no reason to tell Jurgenson what he’d seen. He felt numb, and it wasn’t just the wet and the cold. Inside he was empty. Inside, he was dead. When the flare burned out, LePere lay back down, curled into a ball again, and refused to move. Finally, Jurgenson lay down, too.

The waves continued to build and to wash over the sides of the raft. Icy water, followed by a chill, bitter wind, hit LePere. He could hear Jurgenson screaming, cursing the cold. LePere wore only a pair of boxer shorts under his peacoat. Jurgenson was clothed only in pajamas and a hooded sweatshirt.

Near dawn, the storm abated. The wind died. The water calmed and the raft rode smoothly. The sun rose pale and without warmth. LePere tried to lift himself, but he’d been frozen in a tight ball all night and his joints and muscles seemed riveted in place by pain. After great effort, he managed to sit up. He took a look at Swanson. The man’s face was sheathed with ice, and his eyes were frozen open. LePere knew he was dead. Jurgenson was not moving. LePere nudged him with his foot.

“I’m alive,” Jurgenson rasped. He coughed long
and hard, then slowly uncurled. He pulled himself up using the side of the raft. His face was gray. Ice covered his life vest. He looked at LePere through eyelids barely open. “How long?”

LePere wasn’t sure what he meant. How long had they been on the raft? How long until they were rescued? How long before they would be dead from exposure?

“Let’s light another flare,” LePere suggested. “Warm up some if we can.”

But neither man had the strength to move. Jurgenson fell into a coughing fit that obviously gave him a lot of pain. He slid back down onto the deck of the raft, folded his arms across his chest, and drew his legs up. “Tired,” he said. It was the last word he ever spoke.

The sun crossed the sky. LePere drifted in and out of consciousness. Time was an impossible measure. As dark crept over the lake, LePere gathered what little strength he had and lifted himself to peer over the gunwale of the pontoon raft. Under the evening sky, the lake was as calm as he’d ever seen it, flat and smooth and shiny. A few stars glimmered in the east. Beneath them, LePere made out a small constellation of stars, better defined and moving. A vessel. He kicked at Jurgenson. The man didn’t move. He tried to find the flare gun Jurgenson had dug out of the storage compartment, but it was not at hand and he had no strength for a search, no strength even to cry out above a hoarse whisper. He watched the lights sail off into the windless night and disappear. He lay back down, completely alone now. He was thirsty. His mouth was so dry he could barely swallow. But he didn’t have the strength to pull himself over the side and scoop water from the lake. Instead, he picked at
ice that had formed on his peacoat and put it in his mouth to suck on.

And that was when his father came to him.

LePere didn’t recognize him at first. He was just a man sitting on the gunwale. His face glowed as if lit by a light just under his skin.

“Don’t eat the ice, Johnny,” he said.

LePere asked, “Who are you?”

“We’ve been waiting for you, and for Billy,” he said. “But it’s still not your time, Johnny.”

“Billy? Is he okay?”

“You’re the last one. The only one left. You’ve got to make it. You’ve got to set things right, son.”

“Dad? Is it you? I thought you were… Is Billy all right?”

“Don’t eat the ice, Johnny. It will lower your body temperature. It will kill you.”

“I was so scared for Billy.”

“Billy is with us. I’ve got to go. They’re waiting.”

“Don’t go. Please don’t go.”

“I’ll see you later. We’ll all be together again, Johnny. I promise. Remember. Don’t eat the ice.”

He faded, the outline of him lingering for a few moments, then he was gone, altogether and forever.

Although he wanted to more than he ever had, LePere could not cry. He didn’t have the water for tears.

It was another ten hours before a Coast Guard helicopter spotted him and he was plucked from the life raft that was drifting midway between the Apostle Islands and the Michigan shoreline. He was flown to a hospital in Ashland, Wisconsin. LePere had little memory of the rescue and of the hours that followed. Later, the doctors told him his body temperature was only ninety-four
degrees when the Coast Guard brought him in. They were surprised he hadn’t died with the others on the raft. When he was able to respond, the Coast Guard questioned him. He told them about everything except the visit from his father. That was something he’d never told anyone. For a while, the doctors thought they might have to amputate some toes that suffered frostbite, but in the end, LePere’s body emerged whole from the ordeal. Everyone was encouraging. Everyone was amazed.
You’re alive
, they all told him brightly.
You’re alive
.