Purgatory Ridge (36 page)

Cork spotted a pot of coffee sitting on a tray along with disposable cups. He headed over and poured himself some. “Coffee, George?” he asked.

LeDuc shook his head.

“Cy told me the press is camped at my house, too,” Cork said to Schanno.

The sheriff nodded dolefully. “I’m sorry about that, Cork. I sent Deputy Dross over there to help Rose out.”

“I’d better call.”

Karl Lindstrom stepped out of a doorway down a short hall and walked slowly toward the living room. The man’s appearance startled Cork. Karl was a Lindstrom, a fighter, but the man approaching Cork looked so beaten down that there was no fight left in him. His eyes were bloodshot and tunneled deep into dark sockets. He walked like an old man, sucked dry of life, limp skin over fragile bone. Three feet from Cork, he stopped, and it was a moment before he spoke.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t get the money. I tried. I don’t know where else to turn. I don’t know what else to do.”

Special Agent Kay spoke to him quietly across the room. “I’ve told you, Mr. Lindstrom. You can negotiate.”

“With what?” Anger—a spark of life—burned in his words.

“The promise of money. Tell them you’ll have it but you need more time. If it’s money they’re after, they’ll wait. And then something will break for us, I’m sure of it.”

Lindstrom looked at her, his face gone empty again. “I’m so tired.”

“Karl.” Cork put a hand on his shoulder. “We have the money.”

Every face turned to him.

“You know George LeDuc,” Cork said.

“Of course.” The look Lindstrom gave LeDuc was full of puzzlement. In all their dealings, the two men had been adversaries. What could possibly be the purpose of the Indian’s presence in this business that was no business of his?

“George has promised us the money,” Cork said.

Lindstrom squinted, as if he hadn’t quite heard or didn’t quite believe. “How?”

LeDuc replied, “I’ve asked the manager of our casino to put it together. You’ll have it pretty soon.”

Lindstrom’s look did not change. “Why?”

“Because it’s what people should do,” LeDuc told him. “Wealth in and of itself isn’t an Ojibwe value. The value for us lies in how the wealth is used.”

Lindstrom seemed stunned, truly stunned. “I… don’t… know what… to say.”

Cork had a suggestion.
“Migwech
would be just fine, Karl.”

“Migwech?”

“It means thanks.”

Lindstrom’s arm slowly rose and he reached out to George LeDuc.
“Migwech,”
he said, as he shook the Ojibwe’s hand. “I will repay you, I give you my word.”

“We’ll speak of that later.”

“Is that where you’ve been all night?” Schanno asked Cork. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”

“It’s better you don’t ask, Wally. But listen. I was at
the clinic on the rez. Adrianne Wadena, the physician’s assistant out there, agreed to give me something to help me stay awake. When we got to the clinic, we found that somebody had broken into the place.”

“Drugs?”

“That would be my first guess. She’s doing an inventory, but you’d best get someone out there to check on it.”

“Thanks, Cork. I will.”

Cork walked to where Arnie Gooden was fiddling with the recording equipment with Kay looking over his shoulder. “You’re set up for the call?”

“Phone company’s helping with another trap-and-trace,” Kay replied. “But this time we’re better prepared. We’ve located all the public phones within a twenty-mile radius. One hundred seventeen. Of those, forty-eight are situated outside business establishments. We have enough agents and officers to cover thirty-three, and they’re in place now. Chances are very good we’ll spot the caller.”

“And?”

“If it seems appropriate, we’ll make the arrest.”

“That doesn’t necessarily ensure the safety of our wives and children.”

Kay breathed out deeply. “What does, Mr. O’Connor?”

She was right, and Cork let it go. “Anything more on the ransom notes or any of the evidence you’ve gathered?”

“I’m afraid not. We’re following up any reasonable reports that come to the sheriff’s department and hoping something might turn up there. For now, that’s the best we can do.”

Cork said, “Thank you. I appreciate what you’re doing.”

She smiled. Slight but definite. Like everyone else, she looked pretty well beaten.

“I need to call home,” Cork said to Schanno.

“The phone in my office,” Karl Lindstrom said. “Or my cell phone.” He took a small unit from his pocket and offered it.

“I’ll use the one in your office, thanks.” He headed away.

Rose sounded tired but as if she was holding up. “They came early, Cork. Before it was even light. Those reporters, they’re…” She searched for the word.

“Vultures?” Cork offered.

“I was going to say sons of bitches.”

“How are the girls?”

“Exhausted. They finally fell asleep a little while ago. I’ll wake them if you want to talk to them.”

“Let them sleep. But I’ve got some good news for you to give when they wake up. We have the money.”

“Oh, Cork.” Her voice died in a moment of tears. “Thank God.”

“And the Iron Lake Ojibwe.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll explain it all later. I have to go. The kidnapper will be calling soon. Take care of my girls, Rose. I’ll be home when I can.”

“God be with you, Cork.”

Lindstrom had drifted to the window and stood now in sunlight, staring out at a lawn that up until that morning had been a beautiful expanse of empty green. Cork joined him. He could see reporters snapping pictures of him and Lindstrom together, but he didn’t care. He caught sight of what looked like a dry white stone, bobbing through the crowd. The shaved head of Hell
Hanover. Cork felt his stomach tighten. He had business with Hell, and he would see to it very soon.

“This is my fault,” Lindstrom said.

“Don’t do that to yourself, Karl.”

“It is my fault. I’ve been so worried about that damn mill and the great Lindstrom name that I let go of what was really important. I should have been here that night.”

“Nobody could have known.”

“Why is it you don’t think about taking care of what you love until it’s too late?”

“It’s not too late, Karl. We’re going to get them back.”

The man turned to him, and Cork thought he saw something spring to life again in the dark where Lindstrom’s tired eyes had tunneled. “I think I believe you.”

The phone rang.

“This is it,” Special Agent Kay said.

Lindstrom walked quickly to the phone. He waited to pick up until Arnie Gooden gave him a thumbs-up. He put the call on the speaker.

“Lindstrom here.”

“Do you have it?” Once again, the true voice was hidden behind a grating electronic mask.

“Yes.”

There was a long pause. “You have it?”

“I told you, yes.”

“Son of a bitch.” Even the mask couldn’t hide the fact that the caller was chuckling.

“What now?” Lindstrom asked.

“The drop will be tonight. After dark. I’ll call at nine-thirty
P.M
. sharp with delivery instructions.”

“Not delivery,” Lindstrom said. “Exchange.”

“That will be arranged.”

“I want proof my family is all right. And O’Connor’s.”

“Or what?” the voice chided. “Until tonight, Mr. Lindstrom.” The line went dead.

“Did you get it?” Cork snapped at Agent Arnie Gooden, who was in contact via cell phone with the telephone company.

“Just a minute. Yes. It came from a public phone at 3414 Harbor Avenue…” His face clouded. “… Duluth.”

“Duluth?” Lindstrom repeated.

“Damn,” Kay said quietly. She turned to Arnie Gooden. “Give Duluth PD a call. Ask them to secure the phone booth until we can get an evidence team down there.” She looked at Agent David Earl. “That was smart.”

“Yes. But… did you hear? He sounded surprised when Lindstrom indicated he had the ransom money. What do you make of that?”

“I don’t know.” Kay rubbed her temple. “He’s put off the drop until after dark. That makes sense. Hoping to be invisible.”

Schanno said, “Somebody needs to give a statement to the press out there.”

“I’ll talk to them,” Lindstrom said, his voice at the edge of a threat.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Agent Kay said. “I’ll do it.” She turned to Agent Earl. “You’re welcome to accompany me out there. Represent the interest of the state.”

“All right,” Earl said.

Kay looked at Schanno. “We have some plans to make. I’ll need your help.”

“Whatever it is, you’ve got it.”

When Kay moved toward the front door, Cork said quietly to George LeDuc, “Meet me at the Bronco in a few minutes. I’ll give you a lift back to the rez.”

“Where are you going?”

“To shake hands with the Devil.”

Cork let himself out the back door as the reporters flowed to the front lawn in response to the appearance of the agents from the FBI and BCA. He slipped among the throng, which was focused on Kay and Earl. Kay stood on the front porch, the sun in her eyes, blinking at the upturned faces.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I appreciate your patience…” she began.

Cork found Hell Hanover without any trouble. From behind, he leaned to the man’s ear and spoke softly. “Got an exclusive for you, Hell.”

Hanover turned and his face showed genuine surprise. “O’Connor. What do you want?”

“I’ve got a story for you. An exclusive.”

“About your wife and boy being snatched?”

“No. About your ass and keeping it out of jail. Meet me at Sam’s Place in an hour.” He slipped away before Hanover could object.

Hell Hanover’s maroon Taurus wagon rumbled over the tracks near Sam’s Place and pulled to a stop in the empty parking area. Hell sat a moment looking things over. He opened the car door, swung his stiff artificial leg out, and stood up. His right hand shaded his face against the low morning sun, and once again, he carefully took in the lay of the land. He appeared wary of what he might be walking into, and with good reason. A year and a half earlier, he’d been careless in a confrontation with Cork, and that carelessness had nearly sent him to prison. He dropped his hand, limped to the door of the Quonset hut, and knocked. He saw the door
was already slightly ajar, and he pushed it open fully with his artificial foot.

“O’Connor?” he called inside.

When he received no answer, he glanced behind him and to both sides. His left hand slipped under his wrinkled sports coat to the small of his back and came out with the butt of a small handgun nestled in his palm.

“O’Connor?” he tried again. Then he made the mistake of stepping inside.

Cork left the window of the serving area up front in Sam’s Place. He’d been watching Hanover through a small hole cut in the middle of a poster featuring Sam’s Big Deluxe Burger. He stepped silently to a position just inside the doorway that separated the living area of the Quonset hut from the serving area of Sam’s Place. He was holding a baseball bat, the Louisville Slugger he’d given Annie for her last birthday.

The floor of the old Quonset creaked under the weight of Hell Hanover, and it was easy for Cork to track the man’s position. Hanover went straight to the place Cork wanted him and he stopped. Without needing to look, Cork knew Hell was staring at the photograph—mended with tape and hung over the kitchen sink—of Jo naked and making love to another man. Paper-clipped to the photo was a note on which Cork had written in big red letters,
I DON’T GIVE A DAMN, HELL
.

The moment the floorboards ceased to call out Hanover’s progress, Cork made his move and rushed through the doorway. Before Hanover could react to the sound of footsteps, Cork swung Annie’s Louisville Slugger and connected with Hell’s left forearm. Hanover cried out in pain; his handgun clattered to the floor. Cork used the tip of the bat as a baton and lunged, catching
Hanover square in the stomach. Hell went down to his knees, gasping for air. Cork kicked the handgun clear of the bald man’s reach.

“You know,” Cork said, standing over him, breathing pretty hard himself, “for a guy who wants to lead an armed revolution, you’re a piss-poor strategist.”

“I’ll have you… arrested,” Hell threatened between gasps.

“And rely on the system you want to destroy? I don’t think so, Hell. Besides, you’d lose. You trespassed and pulled a gun. I’d take that to a jury any day.”

Hanover had wrapped his good arm around his stomach and was struggling to look up at Cork. “What’s this all about?”

With the toe of his shoe, Cork tapped the handgun that lay fallen on the floor. “A little thirty-two, Hell? A whole military arsenal to choose from and you pick a prissy weapon to carry.”

“It’s licensed.”

“Playing it safe, I see. Worried you might go to jail?”

“What do you want, O’Connor?”

“An exchange.”

Hell slowly got to his feet. He stopped nursing his stomach and gingerly felt the forearm that had taken the full force of the Louisville Slugger. “Jesus, I think you broke it.”

“It’s only the beginning of what I’ll break unless we strike a deal.”

“You said exchange. What are you talking about?”

“Jo, Stevie, Grace Fitzgerald, and her boy. In exchange for your stockpile of illegal arms.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Wrong answer.” Cork swung the bat again and connected
with Hanover’s good leg just below the knee. Hell went down again, screaming.

“You’re crazy, O’Connor.”

“Absolutely. Crazy enough to kill you right now, Hell. I want my family back.”

“I don’t know anything about your family, God damn it. I didn’t have anything to do with this abduction thing.”

“You tried to use that photograph to force me to back off investigating Eco-Warrior. Why?”

Hanover tried to stand again, but his leg gave out and he ended up back on his knees. “Because it was a situation that could explode in the face of government at every level. Jesus, it was a dream and I wanted it to happen.” He felt his leg and grimaced. “Oh, shit.”

“Two million dollars, Hell. That’s how much the ransom demand is. Two million could buy you a hell of an armory for that little militia of yours.”