William Krueger - Purgatory Ridge

“Where are you taking us?” Grace asked.

“Not far. A mile or so out, just beyond where the lake bottom drops away. We want you deep.”

Jo thought about the remote detonator Bridger had handed to Lindstrom. She considered the motor launch in tow, and she understood. They meant to sink the Anne Marie and use the launch to return to Purgatory Cove.

Bridger seemed to discern her thought process. “We’re not going to blow you up,” he said. “We don’t want to attract attention with a big explosion and we don’t want any debris. No, I’ve rigged just enough of a charge to scuttle her. I figure it’ll take fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Then you and the boat and all the evidence will be gone. But you won’t have to worry about that, because you’ll already be dead.”

Jo asked, “How much has he promised you?”

“What difference does it make to you? Thinking of trying a counter offer?” Bridger laughed.

“I was just thinking about something you said today.”

“Yeah? And what was that?”

“The only way for two people to keep a secret is if one of them is dead. Your exact words, I believe.”

“Lawyers,” Bridger scoffed.

“Think about it. What more does Karl need from you? You gave him your gun and he has the detonator. Right now, all you are to him is a loose end. One of two people who share a secret.”

“Shut up,” Bridger said. But Jo could tell he was thinking.

The boat pitched hard to port, and Stevie nearly fell off the bunk. Jo threw her leg across him and eased him back. He didn’t seem to be aware of it at all. He didn’t even seem to be blinking. A part of Jo thought maybe that was best. If they were going to die, she’d rather her son were somewhere else in his consciousness, somewhere he couldn’t see death coming.

“On the other hand,” Jo went on, once again addressing Bridger, “what’s he to you now but a loose end? You have two million dollars. How much more do you really need? The police will investigate him. They’ll start sifting and sorting and even though everything points another way, they’ll consider Karl Lindstrom seriously. The Fitzgerald fortune is such a magnificent motive. Has he really covered all his tracks? Think about it for a moment, Mr. Bridger. If they nail him and he wants to cut a deal, what does he have to offer them except you?”

She saw a look in his eyes, the kind she’d often seen in the jury box when she knew she’d put well into their minds the question of reasonable doubt. Bridger reached down and lifted his right pant leg. Strapped to his calf was a sheathed knife. He unsnapped the leather guard that secured the hilt.

“You all just sit tight,” he said. He winked at Jo. “Could’ve used you in the SEALs.” Once more he braced himself in the companionway and waited. When the motor cut out, he tensed.

Lindstrom pulled the cabin door open. He had the gun in his hand. He said to Bridger, “Topside, Wes. We need to confer.”

“Confer,” Bridger said. “Right.”

Lindstrom stepped back on deck and Bridger followed warily. The door closed. The waves thumped the side of the boat, and the hull creaked and groaned. Jo slid quickly from the bunk. “Move away from there,” she said to LePere.

He scooted from the storage compartment, and Jo tried desperately to open the door, hoping there would be something inside-a knife, anything-that might free them. Her taped hands were little help. She was still struggling when something slammed hard against the cabin door. A guttural cry of pain followed. Jo kept working at the latch as the sound of a fight in the deckhouse carried down to them. The crack of a pistol shot, followed almost immediately by another, brought the scuffle to an abrupt end.

They all stared at the cabin door.

When it opened, Karl Lindstrom stepped down. He looked drawn, and Jo saw a red stain on his right side above his belt line.

“He had a knife strapped to his leg,” Jo said.

“Yesterday’s news,” Lindstrom replied.

“We were hoping he’d kill you.”

“You were hoping we’d kill each other. Bad luck for you. Just a nick.”

“How will you explain it in the morning? You cut yourself shaving?”

“I’ll think of something,” Lindstrom said. “I always have.”

He held the gun in his right hand and the detonator in the other. Jo knew they’d reached the end. Would he shoot them first?

She didn’t wonder long. Nor did it ultimately matter.

Lindstrom stumbled suddenly down the steps. A look of astonishment stretched all the features of his face. He opened his mouth, and Jo thought he might speak, but all that came out was a brief, hard grunt. He dropped the gun and reached backward as if trying to grasp something behind him. He dropped to his knees in the middle of the cabin, then fell forward, facedown. In three places, the back of his shirt was stained with widening patterns of blood.

Cork teetered at the top of the cabin stairway. In his hand, he gripped the knife Bridger had used in his fight with Lindstrom. The blade glistened with Lindstrom’s blood from tip to hilt. The bow of the Anne Marie rose and dipped, pitching Cork down the steps into the cabin. He stumbled over Lindstrom’s prone form, bounced off the berth, and fell at LePere’s feet. He’d dropped the knife. Slowly, painfully, he reached out, took it again in his grasp, and lifted it toward LePere.

John LePere quickly turned himself around and ran the duct tape that bound his wrists along the sharp edge of the knife while Cork held it. He tore his hands free, took the blade from Cork, and cut the others loose.

Jo sat on the floor and cradled her husband’s head in her lap. “Stay with me, Cork.”

“Always,” he whispered.

LePere said, “I’m going topside. I’ll take us back in.”

He hadn’t gone a step when Grace Fitzgerald cried out, “No!” and reached toward Karl Lindstrom.

Jo saw why. She watched in horror what none of them was able to stop. Karl Lindstrom had turned his head toward his left hand, in which he still held the detonator. Before anyone could prevent him, he squeezed his fingers around the device. A muffled explosion followed, and the Anne Marie shivered as if she’d been kicked.

“You son of a bitch,” Grace yelled.

“I always was a bad loser,” Lindstrom murmured.

LePere danced around Lindstrom and hurried up to the deck. He came back a moment later, looking grim.

“He’s blown a hole in the stern. We’re taking on water.”

“What about the other boat?” Jo said.

LePere shook his head. “The blast blew the tow line free. The other boat’s gone. I can’t even see it.”

“Don’t you have life vests?” Grace asked.

“In the deckhouse,” LePere said. “Let’s clear this cabin. I have to get into that storage compartment. I keep an inflatable raft there. Hurry. We don’t have much time.”

“Take Stevie up, Grace. I’ll help Cork.”

“You’re not strong enough,” LePere told her. “You get the raft. I’ll take your husband.” He lifted Cork in his arms and started up the steps behind the others.

Jo found the rolled, yellow rubber raft and two small oars where LePere had indicated. By the time she’d grabbed the items, water ran down the companionway and lay several inches deep in the cabin.

Lindstrom rolled to his back and said in a wet, bubbly voice, “Help me.”

“Ask God, not me.” Jo didn’t even pause as she stepped over him and headed topside.

Without power or guidance, the boat had turned broadside to the wind, and it tilted dangerously as it rode up the waves and rolled into the troughs. Jo struggled through the deckhouse toward the stern doorway, the shifting angle of the boat throwing her off balance at every step. LePere shouted into the radio mike at the helm station, “Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. This is the Anne Marie. We have a damaged hull and are sinking fast.” He repeated the message several times, giving the coordinates, then abandoned the radio and helped Jo with the raft and oars. They skirted Bridger, who lay facedown in the water that sloshed in the deckhouse, two bloodstains merging across the back of his shirt.