William Krueger - Purgatory Ridge

“Let him up, John.”

LePere stood up. He saw that Bridger held a pistol trained on the women and the boys.

“He was waiting for us,” Jo O’Connor said.

The man who’d followed them pushed up and used his flashlight a moment to search for his handgun. When he found it, he faced the others.

“Karl?” Grace Fitzgerald’s voice was filled with bewilderment.

“Hello, Grace. Hey there, Scott. Good work, Wes,” Lindstrom called to Bridger.

“You know this man?” the woman asked her husband.

“Know him? Hell, I hired him. Look, let’s all go back to LePere’s cozy little place and discuss this. Oh, and by the way, Jo, I’ve got a special surprise for you back there. And for you, too, Stevie. Would you like to see your daddy?”

“Cork’s there?” Jo O’Connor asked.

“He was when I left. And I’m sure he hasn’t gone anywhere.” He waved them off the ridge with his gun. “Let’s go. Time’s wasting.”

BRIDGER PUSHED OPEN the fish house door and turned on the light. He stepped aside, and Lindstrom ushered the others in.

When Jo saw Cork, she let out a cry. He sat on the floor, propped against the wall, his shirt drenched with blood. “Oh Jesus, no.” She dropped to her knees beside him.

His eyes fluttered open, and when he saw her, a faint smile came to his lips. “You’re alive.”

They’d taped her wrists behind her again-taped all their wrists-so she couldn’t reach out to him, couldn’t help him in any way. She saw that he’d managed to unbutton his shirt and pull it aside. In his left hand was a folded, bloody handkerchief that he held pressed against his shoulder a few inches above his right nipple.

“How bad?” she asked.

“Just a hole,” Cork whispered. “One little hole.”

Stevie stood near his father, blinking as he tried to comprehend all the blood and his father’s helplessness.

“Hey, buddy,” Cork said. It was barely more than a mumble. He tried to lift his right arm toward his son, but the move made him groan, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the pain.

“I don’t understand, Karl,” Grace Fitzgerald said. She stood against the wall with Scott beside her.

“Sit down, all of you. Wes, see to the boats. Let me know when you’re ready. And that gun you have. I’ll take it.”

“Why?” Bridger asked darkly.

“Because it’s unregistered, and we’re going to wipe it clean of prints and leave it in Mr. LePere’s house. When they find it, they’ll do ballistics and discover that it’s the same gun that was fired in my home on Grace Cove. Further evidence of Mr. LePere’s guilt.” He held out his hand, and Bridger-a bit reluctantly, it seemed to Jo-yielded him the weapon.

After Bridger made his exit, Lindstrom leaned casually against one of the tables where LePere’s father had cleaned fish. “You know, Grace, I loved you once, really loved you. I’d have died for you, you know that?” He stuffed the handgun Bridger had given him into the waist of his pants, but he kept the other pointed at his prisoners.

“I don’t believe it,” she replied.

He shrugged. “Fine. Whatever. I did kill for you once.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your beloved Edward. It wasn’t the lake that got him. It was Bridger. At my direction.”

Grace stared in disbelief. “You… killed Edward?”

“I thought that with him out of the way, I’d have a chance. But he still had you, even dead.” Lindstrom waved it off, as if it were really nothing to him now. “The point is that when it became clear to me that you would never love me, it also became clear that someday you’d leave me. Now, that was a thing I couldn’t abide. For many reasons.”

“You… planned all this?”

“Meticulously, Grace.”

“How’d you know Wes?” John LePere asked.

“He told you a story once, I believe, about a covert operation he was involved in as a SEAL that sank a Libyan tanker. That was my operation. Wes impressed me as a man with many skills and few scruples. I tracked him down when I decided to get rid of Edward.”

Cork coughed and groaned. Jo longed to hold him, to give him some comfort, to ease his pain. She glanced at Stevie and saw that his eyes were glazed. He stared at her as if he didn’t see her at all, as if he saw nothing anymore. She understood. How could so brief a life, so protected an existence, comprehend such horror as he’d been through?

Bridger opened the door and stepped in dripping rain. “All set. Here’s the remote detonator.” He handed the device to Lindstrom.

“We’re going for a boat ride,” Karl Lindstrom said to Jo and the others. “I’ll tell you up-front that you won’t be coming back. Now, I can kill you right here, or you can walk to the boats and have a few more precious minutes of life. I’d prefer not to have to carry you down to the dock, but the choice is yours.” He glanced at his watch. “You’d better decide fast. I have to get back to Grace Cove before I’m missed.”

He waited. LePere finally stood up. So did Grace and Scott. Stevie, who’d never sat down, stood blank-faced and rigid.

“You have to get up, Cork,” Jo whispered desperately. “Please get up.”

Cork slowly worked his way to his hands and knees, then pulled himself up by holding on to one of the tables. He stood, wavering, leaning heavily against Jo.

Karl Lindstrom said, “Give him a hand, Wes.”

“He’s all bloody.”

“So buy yourself a new shirt tomorrow. You’ll be able to afford it.”

“Why don’t you help him?”

“Somebody’s got to hold the gun.”

“Shit.” Bridger worked his shoulder under Cork’s arm and walked him to the door.

“Let’s go,” Lindstrom said, and he followed behind them.

They stumbled into the storm, walking a muddy path to the dock. Even with her arms bound behind her back, Jo managed to grab hold of the front of Stevie’s shirt, and she pulled him along behind her. He followed like a zombie. Bridger had tied the stolen motor launch to the stern of the Anne Marie with a tow line. They all climbed aboard LePere’s boat. Bridger hauled Cork over the gunwale and let him drop in the cockpit.

“That’s as far as I take him,” Bridger declared.

Lindstrom herded the others out of the rain into the deckhouse of the Anne Marie, but he left Cork where he’d fallen. “Just get him out of the way so we don’t trip over him,” he instructed Bridger.

Looking back, Jo saw Wesley Bridger roll Cork against the side of the cockpit, where he lay like a dead fish waiting to be gutted.

Lindstrom directed them to the other end of the deckhouse where a companionway to the left of the helm station led below. At the bottom of the short flight of steps, they entered the small, forward cabin that had a V berth shaped to the bow. Lindstrom shoved LePere to the floor. Jo and the others crammed themselves onto the berth. Bridger stepped down and joined his cohort.

“I’ll take her out. You keep them out of mischief,” Lindstrom said. He headed up to the wheel inside the deckhouse. Bridger closed the cabin door and stayed with the others belowdeck.

The Anne Marie pulled away from the dock. On the relatively calm water of Purgatory Cove, the boat rocked gently. As soon as Karl Lindstrom headed it out beyond the protection of the rocks, the bow began to buck wildly. Stevie sat beside Jo, stiff as a plastic doll. Grace and Scott were in the bunk on the other side of the V berth. LePere sat on the floor with his back against a door marked storage.

Bridger braced himself against the pitching of the boat and grinned at them. “Feels worse than it is. The waves are only three or four feet. Nothing, really. Relax and enjoy the ride.”