William Krueger: Tamarack County

He found himself thinking about Cecil LaPointe and how the man held no enmity toward Cork and the others who’d had a hand in putting him behind bars for all those years. LaPointe believed they’d simply played the parts they were always meant to play in shaping his life. Cork wondered about Walter Frogg. Was he always meant to play this part in Stephen’s life and Evelyn Carter’s? He envied LaPointe’s certainty and his serenity, because at the moment, Cork was certain of nothing and what filled him was a rage that precluded any hope of peace.

Two minutes. Three. He heard nothing. After five minutes, he began to rethink his promise.

Then he heard a shot, a single shot, a crack that split the sound of the storm. And then it was only wind again, rushing past him with a liquid hush.

He waited, which took all the control he had. Several minutes later, a figure appeared before him, as if disgorged by the night.

“We broke in,” Azevedo said. “He’s been there, but he’s not there now. The sheriff wants you.”

“What was the shot?”

“Something moved when we were inside the cabin. A raccoon. Bronson nailed it.”

Cork followed the deputy to the cabin, where fingers of flashlight beam were poking around inside. As he entered, he saw the splintering of the door that had been accomplished with the battering ram. It was a one-room cabin, rustic as hell-an old, scarred table, two wooden chairs, a bunk, a sink and counter. No electricity, but there was a woodstove against one wall and a Coleman gas lantern sat on the table. Outside somewhere, Cork figured, there’d be an outhouse. The place smelled old, smelled ignored and rotting. It also smelled of cordite-Bronson’s shot-and Cork saw a little mound of dark gray fur in one corner.

“Well, it’s a roof over his head, I suppose,” Dross said.

She stood at the center of the cabin, the beam of her light on a big canvas travel bag sitting on a sleeping bag that had been spread out on the bunk. The room was cold, though not so cold as the night outside.

“The stove’s still warm,” she added.

Cork said, “Where is he?”

“Pender found snowmobile tracks leading onto the river. Frogg is out, but he’ll be back.”

“Not if he sees all these flashlights,” Cork said.

Dross said, “Bronson’s down on the ice, watching for him. We’ll be ready.”

Cork went to the window that overlooked the White Iron River. It was too dark to see the ice. “I’ve been thinking about Evelyn Carter,” he said.

“What about her?” Dross replied.

“We found her car on the Old Babbitt Road, not far from the Vermilion trailhead. That trail connects with the North Star Trail, which crosses Becker Road a quarter mile north of here. I’m thinking that the night Evelyn went missing, Frogg intercepted her on her way home, killed her, dumped her body somewhere. He drove her Buick out to the Old Babbitt Road, siphoned the gas, and walked to his snowmobile, which he’d left at the trailhead. Probably drove the sled back to wherever he intercepted her, which was also where he’d parked his pickup and the snowmobile trailer. Then he hightailed it here to wait and see if we bought his scheme.”

Dross thought it over and gave a slight nod. “She knew him well. If he waved her down, she would have stopped.” She thought some more. “And we didn’t find any blood in her car, so he probably killed her and dumped her body wherever he stopped her.”

“Had to be off the road where he wouldn’t readily be seen by passing motorists,” Cork prodded. “All the roads out to her place are pretty well traveled.”

Dross looked at him and understanding dawned in her eyes. “You think he stopped her in that long driveway that leads up to her house.”

Cork said, “We’ve been looking in the wrong places. Exactly what Frogg wanted.”

“We’re in the right place now,” Dross said.

“When he comes back, you ought to have your snowmobiles off their trailers and ready to roll, just in case,” Cork said.

Dross said, “Pender, get the sleds.”

“If you won’t let me help apprehend him, I can at least help with that,” Cork said.

Azevedo gave Cork the key to the snowmobile he’d hauled, and Cork followed Pender back to Becker Road. Pender had used a trailer to bring his sled, and he had it unloaded pretty quickly. Azevedo had brought the other snowmobile in the bed of his Tacoma pickup and had used a trifold aluminum ramp to get it there. Cork was still setting up the ramp when Pender sped down the access back toward Hancock’s cabin. Cork finally got the ramp secured and tried to start the engine. It was an old Arctic Cat and reluctant, in that cold, to kick over. Eventually, he got it idling, gave it a couple of minutes, then backed it down the ramp. He decided to give it a few more minutes to warm up before revving it and joining the others.

He turned his back to the wind and thought about Frogg, worried about where the man had gone. He used his cell to call the house on Gooseberry Lane. Anne answered and told him everything was fine there. She asked when he’d be home and when they’d be going back to Duluth to be with Stephen.

He told her, “Soon, honey, real soon. Is Deputy Mercer there?”

She gave him over to the deputy.

Cork knew that Dross had let Ken Mercer in on the situation with Frogg, and had cautioned him to say nothing to Cork’s family until they had the man in custody.

“Frogg isn’t at the cabin,” Cork told the deputy. “As nearly as we can tell, he’s taken off on a snowmobile. God knows where. You keep a sharp eye out, understand?”

“Ten-four, Cork,” Mercer said. “You’ll keep me informed?”

“I will,” he said. “And, Ken?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He slid the phone back into its holster on his belt and was just about to mount the idling Arctic Cat when he heard something, a distant, familiar whine above the rush of the wind. It was a sound that in the North Country in winter was as ubiquitous as the buzz of mosquitoes in summer. A snowmobile was speeding toward him on Becker Road.

The little machine came from the west, from the place where the North Star Trail crossed Becker Road. The night and the heavily falling snow were like a wall, and Cork couldn’t see the snowmobile yet. He stood beside the Arctic Cat, trying to will his eyes to pierce the veil, struggling to construct a plan if it was Frogg who materialized.

The snowmobile appeared, skimming over the powder that covered Becker Road, its headlights diffused by the snowfall. As soon as it came in sight of the vehicles parked at the access to Hancock’s cabin, whoever was driving brought the sled to a halt. Cork hadn’t turned on the lights of the Arctic Cat yet. He pressed himself against the Tacoma’s rear bumper, trying to keep from being seen, waiting for the other snowmobile to make its next move. For ten seconds, the driver sat considering the situation, then suddenly cut a sharp U-turn on the road and tunneled back into the storm like a badger into its hole. Cork leaped onto the Arctic Cat and shot off in pursuit.

At the North Star Trail crossing, the snowmobile cut to the right, toward the river. Cork stayed with it fifty yards back. He wasn’t wearing goggles, and he crouched low behind the windshield to keep the bitter wind out of his eyes, so that he could see. The fugitive snowmobile slid onto the frozen surface of the White Iron River, shot east, and blew past the place where Hancock’s cabin stood among the trees on the shoreline. A few seconds later, Cork did the same. He didn’t see any sign of Deputy Bronson, who was supposed to be watching for Frogg. He couldn’t even guess what Azevedo and the others were thinking. If he’d had the time, he would have called on his cell to apprise them, but there wasn’t a moment to spare.