William Krueger - Purgatory Ridge

“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?”

“You didn’t check them when you came back from the ransom drop?”

“I was just about to when you called and insisted I get the fucking boats ready.” He kicked the side of the fish house. “You’re so damned anal.”

“Wait.” Lindstrom peered hard across the cove toward Purgatory Ridge. “What’s that?”

Cork looked, too, and saw a long, slender beam of light moving along the face of the cliff, low and near the water.

“They’re trying to make it to the far side of the ridge,” the stranger said.

“All right. Take the van and go around to cut them off on the other side. I’ll move up on them from behind.”

“What about him?”

Lindstrom looked at Cork. “End of the line, O’Connor.”

Although he knew it was probably useless, Cork broke away and ran toward the cove, shouting as loud as he could, “Jo, look out! They’re coming!”

That was all he had time to say before Lindstrom pulled the trigger of the. 38.

AT A SCENIC TURNOUT on Highway 61, a mile south of Purgatory Ridge, the Minnesota Geologic Society had long ago placed a marker bearing a metal plaque that explained the great rock formation. Over the years, John LePere had read the inscription many times.

Millions of years ago, the basalt rock that formed the north shore had been laid down by massive lava flows. Eons of weathering and glacial scouring had chiseled at the shoreline, eventually cutting it back almost to the foot of the Sawtooth range. However, rills of nearly impervious rhyolite overlay the basalt in several places. Long after the softer surrounding stone had been eroded away, those rhyolite rills continued to stand against the elements, often as solitary formations that seemed out of place. The top of Purgatory Ridge was two hundred seventy-seven feet above Lake Superior. The formation was nearly a quarter mile wide. Although composed of one of the most obdurate of minerals, the ridge had not escaped the ravages of time. Thousands of winters, thousands of cycles of freeze and thaw, hundreds of thousands of harsh, battering storms had left their mark on the ridge, the cumulative effect visible in the talus-great blocks of stone broken from the sheer walls-that lay in a formidable jumble along the base of the cliffs. Someday, the marker predicted, perhaps a million years hence, the ridge would no longer exist.

The geologists spoke about time as if it were an endless, incomprehensible quantity. To those who measured time in breaths and heartbeats, it wasn’t hard to grasp at all. And John LePere, as he led the others over the talus at the base of Purgatory Ridge, was afraid time was running out.

When he guided the others toward the ridge, he’d thought he could find his way easily, could lead them swiftly and unseen over rock he’d known since childhood, along paths he and Billy had followed hundreds of times to the other side of the ridge. However, as a child he’d known enough to be well afraid when the waves rose up like raging giants and swept the cliffs clean of everything that was not rock, and he’d never dared to be there during a storm. As soon as he reached the base of the black cliffs, he knew he’d made a mistake. He would have to use the flashlight. If Bridger and his cohort were looking, they’d see the beam across the cove. He didn’t like it, but by then, he had no other choice.

He moved ahead of the others a few yards, then turned back and lit the way for them to see. The Fitzgerald woman and her son were directly behind him. The boy Stevie and his mother brought up the rear. Those two held hands whenever possible. More often than not, however, they were forced to travel single file along narrow shelves and between huge rock fragments. Along the south side of the ridge that faced the cove, they made good progress. But as soon as they rounded the chest of the ridge, they were exposed fully to whatever the great lake threw at the shore. They slowed to a crawl. The crash of the waves became so loud, it was impossible to be heard. LePere directed them with hand gestures. Many times they had to grasp at a cold, wet face of rock for something to hold to as the lake threatened to sweep them away. LePere, who kept an eye to their backs, watching for any sign that Wesley Bridger was following, had seen a light dashing among the boulders far behind them-far enough, he thought, that if they kept moving, they would make it to the back side of the ridge safely ahead of Bridger.

They traversed the worst of the shoreline without incident and began to cross a broad plate of rock that sloped sharply toward the water. Although the waves couldn’t reach them there, the driving rain made the rock slippery. Twice, LePere lost his footing, and it was only his powerful grip that kept him from sliding into the lake. He concentrated fully on his own crossing, then turned back to the others. They’d all stopped. LePere saw immediately why. The O’Connor boy was in the water. From her own precarious position, his mother tried to lean out to him, to grasp his hand as the swells lifted him and rolled him up the sloping plate. Without a moment of hesitation, LePere retraced his steps, handed the flashlight to Grace Fitzgerald, and went into the lake after Stevie.

The water was ice cold, but LePere barely noticed. He grabbed the boy, who was bobbing in the wake of a swell, and put his right arm firmly around Stevie’s chest. When the next wave swept in, LePere felt the power of the lake lift them both as if they were nothing. He turned before he hit the rock, took the blow fully against his side and shoulder, sparing the boy. The lake tried to tear Stevie from his grasp, but LePere was damned if he’d lose the boy now. He threw his free arm out, groping for a firm hold. His hand grasped a ragged edge, and he clamped his fingers tight around it. He pulled himself up and pushed the boy ahead so that Jo O’Connor could reach him. As soon as Stevie left his arms, the next wave hit and scraped LePere across the rock, facedown. Two more waves manhandled him before he was able to pull himself from the water. He could feel a warm flow of blood down his face. He would have preferred to rest a moment, but even a moment was not something he wanted to waste. He waved them all to move ahead, and he followed.

Grace Fitzgerald now lit the way. When they reached the other side of the ridge, LePere could see the lights from resort cabins along the shoreline a half mile distant. He looked back. The light behind had gained on them significantly. He knew they wouldn’t reach the cabins before Bridger caught up with them.

“Go ahead,” he called to the others.

“What about you?” Jo O’Connor called back.

LePere pointed toward the approaching flashlight beam. “I’ll take care of him. Go on. Just go.”

The women went ahead with their sons. LePere found a boulder that would hide him, and he crouched to spring. As the flashlight beam slid past, he leaped and took the man down. They wrestled briefly on the rock before a gunshot stopped them both. LePere, who lay pressed on top of the man with the flashlight, heard Bridger’s voice speaking at his back.