Sara Paretsky - Blacklist

Geraldine was dismayed by the strip malls lining the highway. “All of this is so new! When I came here with Calvin, none of these monstrous sterile stores existed.”

“Do you think you can find the lodge with the landmarks so changed?” I was testy. “If you can’t, we’re in trouble.”

“Not so impatient, young woman. I only need to get my bearings. Look at that map. There should be a forest northeast of town.”

“The Nicolet National Forest, yes.”

“Is that what they call `the North Woods’ these days? You need to find a road into the forest that goes past Elk Horn Lake.”

I studied the map. The lake was about three miles northeast of the forest’s edge. I drove north through the town, found a county road east, and made my way under the canopy of giant sycamores and pines.

In the dark, with the snow, the forest felt cold and menacing, the wild woods of fairy tales, where writhing trees held demons. The little Saturn skittered on the unplowed surface. I got out to check the road, to make sure we hadn’t slipped off it-and to crouch shivering in a ditch to relieve myself.

No tire tracks lay ahead of us. Catherine, if she had come this way, had a four-hour start; the snow would have covered her tracks. But what about Renee? How long would it take the master organizer to work out where her granddaughter would flee for refuge?

After half an hour of hard driving, I spied a sign covered in snow. I climbed out again. It pointed to Elk Horn Lake. When I told Geraldine, she shut her eyes, rebuilding landmarks in her mind. I was to take the second turning north.

Grimly hoping that more roads hadn’t been added since she was last here, I took the second turn to the north. The snow had stopped, but the wind kept whipping the tree branches in their tormented dance. My arms ached; I could hardly bear to keep them on the steering wheel, and the muscle in my left shoulder began to throb, just below the level of unmanageable pain.

After two miles, when I thought I couldn’t drive another yard, I saw the sign. Grand Nicolet Lodge, one-quarter mile. When I told Geraldine, she smiled in triumph. She’d been right-I couldn’t have found it without her.

A heavy chain slung between two posts blocked the entrance to the turnoff. The lodge was open from May 1 through November 30, a sign on the chain explained, giving a phone number to call for reservations. If Catherine and Benji were here, they could have taken the Range Rover around the pillars. In fact, they probably had-a bush on the left looked recently mangled-but the Saturn wasn’t built for that kind of driving.

Under its headlights, my fingers thick with cold, I worked my picks into the padlock. Geraldine came out to watch: she had never seen a

professional lock breaker at work and wanted the experience, even though she slid in the snow and was saved from falling only by crashing against one of the pillars.

The padlock wasn’t a sophisticated one, fortunately, or I could never have undone it in the cold. When I’d driven the car through the entrance, I pulled the chain across the road again. If Renee was behind me, that might slow her down-for thirty seconds.

I cut my lights and crept forward, driving with my left hand while I warmed my right fingers under the heating vent. We slipped and slid a quarter mile, until the lodge loomed suddenly in front of us, a giant timbered shape blotting out trees and sky. Geraldine directed me to its left, where the drive led to outbuildings and the cottage. The Saturn stuck briefly in the snow, then bucked forward.

At the rear of the lodge, Geraldine pointed out where the rear walls could be unhinged and opened: they had done that to create an impromptu stage for the famous 1948 benefit. The audience had sat on chairs and blankets in the yard.

We crept onward to a barn which served now as a garage and equipment shed. Beyond the barn lay Elk Horn Lake, black showing through white as the wind whipped the snow cover away from it. In a clearing on the shore stood a stone house. Compared to Larchmont Hall and the lodge behind us, I suppose you could call it a cottage, but it was about twice the size of the bungalow I’d grown up in.

Geraldine handed me the keys she’d brought with her. “The big one used to open this barn. If not, you’ll find your way in, I daresay.”

To my amazement-and relief-the lock hadn’t been changed in fifty years. I slid the doors open, glad now of the wind: it blew snow into my eyes and mouth, but its moan through the trees blocked the noise I was making.

I let out a small woof of relief inside the barn stood a white Range Rover. It had a fresh deep scrape on its right side where Catherine had misjudged the clearance around the pillar, but she was here.

I drove Geraldine as close to the cottage as I could. She climbed out, absurd for the setting in her nylons and heels and Hermes handbag, but still possessing a touching dignity. Before she left the car, she told me what she remembered of the cottage’s layout: the main rooms faced the lake. We would be entering through the kitchen. To the right was the dining room, and beyond it a living room that ran the length of the house. A staircase rose from the living room to the bedrooms above.

I backed the Saturn into the barn, shutting the door but leaving it unlocked in case we needed to get away in a hurry. When I rejoined her, I told Geraldine to stay behind me on the way in.

“I need both hands free to deal with whatever lies on the far side of this door. And I’m going to have my gun out, so don’t run into my back.” She handed me the key. Like the barn door, the lock here hadn’t been changed, either. It was an old dead bolt, which slid back with a snap. Taking my gun in my right hand, I went into a crouch, turned the knob and slid inside.

A high young voice cried, “If you come one step closer, I will shoot a hole through you.”

It was Catherine, sounding wobbly with fear. I couldn’t see her. I couldn’t tell how far away she was or what kind of angle she had. Or what kind of weapon.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said irritably. “Geraldine Graham is with me. Even if you could shoot a hole in me in the dark, Ms. Graham will tell your grandparents and your father, and you’ll have a hell of a time avoiding juvie court, let alone a Washington school. Is Benji here?”

“It’s you!” Her voice quivered with-what, disappointment? rage? “I ordered you to stay away from me!”

“Put a sock in it, Catherine.” I crawled forward, feeling for a chair or something to use as a shield. “I’m not interested in your temper tantrums. Do you imagine yourself as some kind of heroine, living in the north woods on the muskrats you’ll trap? What happens when the crew comes around to get the lodge ready to open-you’ll shoot them, too?”

I bumped into a stool. Behind me, I could hear Geraldine’s slow clumsy step.

“We’ll think of something before then. We have a month. Go away, unless you’ve already told Daddy and Granny where I am.”

As my senses adjusted to the space, I could tell she was above me,

probably on a back staircase, a servants’ staircase, that hadn’t registered in Geraldine’s mind when she was recalling the layout.

“Darlin’, there are no secrets in New Solway. Ms. Graham told me you’d likely be here, where you spent all those golden childhood days with your grandfather. For that same reason, your grandmother has probably guessed you’re here, and I daresay your father may have also. So put away your rifle and come along with me before your folks show up. You don’t want your granny to find you like this, do you? Not with Benji. Let me get you home to your bed, and let me take Benji to Chicago where I can negotiate his safety.”