He held out to them a can he’d found on the nearly empty shelves-motor oil for marine engines, one of the few items Bridger hadn’t removed. “Maybe you could slide him through,” he suggested.
Jo took the can and gave Scott a grateful hug. The boy looked away, embarrassed. “Stevie,” she said. “I’m going to take your shirt and pants off, sweetheart, and then I’m going to put something really slippery all over you. It will feel icky, but I think it will help you squeeze out of those bars. Okay?”
Stevie was still sobbing, but he managed to choke out, “‘kay,” so that Jo knew he understood.
“That’s my good boy.”
LePere supported Stevie’s body while Jo unbuttoned and removed her son’s shirt. She unsnapped his jeans and pulled down the zipper. She had to pull off his shoes to get his pants off. At last, she took a shard of glass from the broken mirror and made a slit in the cardboard side of the oil container. She poured the viscous fluid over his back and rubbed it completely along his sides and chest and stomach. Finally, she dripped the last of it down the bars that held her son prisoner.
“Okay, I think we’re ready. Here goes, honey.” She gave LePere a sign and he lifted Stevie so that the boy could turn his shoulders. Gently, LePere eased him forward. Stevie made a hurting sound. LePere glanced at Jo, who nodded for him to continue. LePere’s face was contorted with concern as he worked Stevie through the bars toward freedom. Once his chest was clear, Stevie nearly shot through the window. LePere held tightly to his ankles.
“I’m going to let you down slowly,” he called to Stevie. “As far as I can. Then I’ll let you drop. I’ll tell you before I do that.” He inched forward until his arms were through the bars up to his shoulders. “Okay, Stevie. I’m going to let go. You shouldn’t drop more than a couple of feet. Roll when you hit the ground. It will help.”
Jo heard a small thump as Stevie fell. She shoved up beside LePere on the crate. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”
Stevie didn’t answer.
“Stevie?” she called. She tried to see below the window. The moon had just begun to rise over Lake Superior and in its light the ground looked silver as if covered in frost. She couldn’t see her son. “Stevie, answer me.” Her voice was cold with a desperate fear.
They all turned suddenly as the door to the fish house rattled. Stevie cried from the other side, “I can’t get it open, Mommy.”
Jo rushed to the door and pressed herself against it. “That’s okay, Stevie,” she said, nearly weeping with relief. “That’s okay.”
“What do I do?” he called in his small, frightened voice.
Run, she wanted to tell him. Run fast and far. But there was another mother and child, and Stevie was their only hope.
“He needs to get into the house,” LePere said to Jo. “If the door’s locked, there’s a key on a nail under the top porch step.”
Jo dropped Stevie’s clothes through the window and as he put them on, she explained very carefully to him what he had to do. She heard the crunch of his little feet on the gravel as he hurried away, then she heard nothing. She hopped onto the crate at the window. From there she could see the whole scene-the dock, the cove, the dark profile of Purgatory Ridge, and the house, all coated with moonlight. In the sky to the west, above the Sawtooth 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.