A few miles outside of Finland, he broke the quiet inside the Bronco. “When you talked with the kidnapper, Karl, why didn’t you ever mention your son’s diabetes?”
“Not my son. My wife’s son. He refused to let me adopt him.” He slapped the full cylinder into place. “What good would it have done, saying something about the boy’s weakness?”
Weakness? Cork thought.
“A man like LePere wouldn’t care,” Lindstrom added.
“Apparently, he cared enough to risk everything breaking into the rez clinic for insulin. You know, that’s something I can’t quite figure. If he was so concerned about keeping Scott alive, why would he be so quick now to rush to murder? It’s almost as if there are two minds at work here.”
“A man like LePere, he could be schizoid for all we know. Hell, he lost his whole family to Lake Superior-father, mother, brother. Something like that’s bound to snap anybody’s mind.”
His father, his mother, and his brother? Cork had been acquainted with John LePere for many years, and this was more specific information than he’d ever learned about the man. How was it that Lindstrom knew?
Cork fell back into a meditative silence for a few miles. When he glanced into the rearview mirror, he saw Lindstrom sighting down the barrel of the. 38.
“Nice heft,” Lindstrom said. “You pretty good with it?”
“I generally hit what I’m aiming at.”
They moved ahead of the storm, just beyond the edge of the rain. They passed through an open area where the wind kicked dust across the road and shoved against the Bronco. Cork held the wheel steady.
“At the marina,” he said over his shoulder, “when Earl questioned you about your military service, you told him you couldn’t talk about what you did. Does that mean naval intelligence?”
“Naval intelligence,” Lindstrom confirmed. “Why do you ask?”
“I was just thinking. You’ve been well trained in gathering information.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing. Because Cork was thinking about Lindstrom’s building a home in a place where his only neighbor was a man who had every reason in the world to hate the Fitzgerald name. It seemed to indicate a terrible lapse in reconnoitering. On the other hand, maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was evidence of something else entirely. Something cold and abominable.
“Nothing?” Lindstrom said quietly. “O’Connor, I’ve observed how your mind works. You don’t ask a question for no reason.”
Cork heard the click of the hammer on the. 38 as it was drawn back and cocked. In the next instant, he felt the cool metal of the muzzle against the back of his head.
“You know what I think? I think you’ve just about got it all put together.”
Cork pulled the Bronco to a stop in Illgen City at the junction with State Highway 61. City was a misnomer for the intersection. There were only a couple of visible structures, a hotel and a cafe, and neither showed any sign of life at that hour. The highways were deserted. The swipe of the wipers and the drum of the rain on the roof were the only sounds. Cork made no move to continue the drive.
“You and LePere?” he asked.
“LePere’s in this, but not the way you think. Or the way he thinks.” Lindstrom waited a moment. “You’re dead already, O’Connor. I can do it here and now, or we can keep going. I’m figuring you might want to see your family one last time before you all die.”
“They’re alive?”
“About as much as you are.”
Cork made the turn and kept on going. Whenever lightning crackled over the lake, he could see the angry crash of waves against the rocks along the shoreline. “She was going to divorce you, wasn’t she?” he said. “That’s why she wanted to talk to Jo professionally.”
Lindstrom gave a slight laugh. “It only dawned on her recently. Me, I’ve seen it coming for a long time.”
“And in a divorce, because of the prenup, you get nothing.”
“I insisted on the prenup. It was such a selfless gesture that she insisted on making me her beneficiary-after the boy, of course. With both of them dead, I get everything. Over thirty million dollars, O’Connor. Now there’s a motive. But, you know, nobody’s even going to look my way. It was just a kidnapping gone terribly wrong. Eventually, all the signs would point to LePere, but he’d have vanished, dropped off the face of the earth along with my dear wife and her son. And now you and yours.” Lindstrom gave Cork’s head a little push with the barrel of the. 38. “You figured LePere out too soon. Your mistake.”
The muzzle stopped kissing the back of Cork’s head. Cork heard Lindstrom tapping a number into his cell phone.
“Are the boats ready to go?” Lindstrom fell silent, listening. “Get them ready now.” He paused, then spoke again with fire in his voice, “God damn it. Get down to those boats and check everything out. We don’t have a lot of time, and I don’t want any slipups.” He shot out an impatient puff of air. “Ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Just have the boats ready when we pull up, got me?” He shoved the cell phone back into his pocket.
“You know,” Cork said. “As a matter of standard procedure, they’re going to check the record of all calls made to and from that phone tonight.”
Lindstrom laughed. “Different phone, O’Connor. Different account. I’ve thought of everything. I’ve been planning this for a very long time.”
They were passing through Beaver Bay, a gathering of a few businesses along the road. On occasion, Cork had eaten at the inn there. Good pie. But the inn was dark now, and empty, and offered him nothing.
“You built that house on Grace Cove purposely to goad LePere.”
“Stroke of genius,” Lindstrom said. Once again, he’d nestled the barrel of the police special against Cork’s skull. “I stumbled across a magazine article from a few years ago. LePere’s whole sad story. And bingo. The idea came to me in a flash. Built the house. Got LePere into position. And then you know what? Fate gave me a helping hand. Eco-Warrior. What a great smoke screen.”
They were approaching Purgatory Ridge. In the flash of lightning, Cork saw huge waves surge against talus at the foot of the cliff and shatter there. A moment later, the Bronco entered a long, brightly lit tunnel through the ridge.
“When they find you gone, they’ll ask questions,” Cork said.
“I’ll be back before anyone ever misses me. Slow down,” Lindstrom said. “As I understand it, the turn’s just ahead on the left.”
Despite the heavy rain, Cork spotted the access road as soon as they were out of the tunnel. He pulled the Bronco off the highway and followed a narrow gravel lane through a wooded area. Where the road broke from the trees, it began a curve around a tiny cove. Up ahead, the headlights of the Bronco illuminated a small house perched near the water’s edge.
“Park next to that pickup,” Lindstrom instructed him. “Give me the keys,” he said after they’d stopped. “Pass them to me slowly over your shoulder.” He emphasized Cork’s predicament with a little tap of the gun barrel. Cork did as he’d been asked.
Lindstrom got out first. He used the. 38 to wave Cork out after him. As Cork stepped from the Bronco, a man he’d never seen before emerged from the night and the rain.
“The boats?” Lindstrom asked.
“Didn’t I say I’d have them ready?” the man replied.
“It’s when you’re almost home that you relax your guard and make mistakes.”
“From one of your fucking Annapolis textbooks?”
Lindstrom looked about. “Where are the others?”
“Locked in that old fish house.” He pointed toward a building twenty or thirty yards from the house.
“Time for a tearful reunion, O’Connor. Let’s go.”
The stranger led the way. As he reached the door of the fish house, he stopped dead and said, “Fuck me.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s unlocked.” The man shoved the door open. “They’re gone. Son of a bitch.”
“How long?”
“Do I look like Kreskin? How the hell should I know?”