William Krueger - Northwest Angle

Jenny said, “Wouldn’t work for this little guy. Two days ago, I had no idea I’d have a baby on my hands.”

Belgea looked at her and at the child, and she smiled gently and said, “Could have fooled me. If there’s anything you need for him or for yourself, you be sure to let me know.”

“I will.”

Outside the others returned. Belgea said good-bye, and the good women of the Angle went back to Larson’s boat and headed away.

“Clean duds,” Anne said, as she came into the lodge. She held up a folded stack of clothing for Jenny.

Jenny still wore the things she’d had on when the storm threw her onto the island. The idea of cleaning herself up was wonderful. She said, “Would someone watch him while I shower and change?”

Rose and Anne replied almost in unison, “We’d be happy to.”

“You’ll let me know if he cries or if he needs me.”

“Go,” Rose said. “He’ll be fine with us.”

Jenny took her clothing and started to leave but at the door turned back and glanced at the basket with concern.

“Go!” Anne ordered.

Jenny left.

Mal, when he’d come in, had sat at the table, and now he gingerly rubbed his damaged ankle. “If she has trouble leaving him for a few minutes, it’s going to be hell on her when she has to give him up for good.”

They all looked at the baby, and then at the empty doorway through which Jenny had disappeared, and no one had a thing to say.

When Cork and the others returned, the sun was behind the trees on Oak Island, and Bascombe’s lodge lay deep in the shadows of evening. As they approached the lodge, Cork’s mouth began to water at the aromas drifting outside. When they stepped in, he saw that the table was set, and he could hear the clatter of activity in the kitchen.

“We’re back,” he called.

Anne came out and said, “Wash up. I’ll call the others.”

Over the best meat loaf Cork swore he’d ever tasted, he recounted the events on Stump Island.

“What did you think of them?” Rose asked.

“They were friendly enough,” Cork replied.

“But?”

“I got a hinky feel from the place.”

Bascombe shrugged and said, “Religious folks always give me the willies. I figure they’re okay, just a little lopsided in their view of human nature.”

Cork looked at his brother-in-law. “Mal, you ever hear of a group called the Church of the Seven Trumpets?”

“Can’t say I have.” Mal worked his tongue over something stuck in a back tooth. “But if it’s a biblical reference, it probably refers to the seven trumpets in the Book of Revelation.”

“Mr. Hornett told us to read Revelation,” Stephen said. “What did he mean?”

Mal said, “Basically, Revelation states that at the end of the world angels will blow seven trumpets. The first six will bring devastation and death to the earth with a lot of fire and bloodletting and plagues and things falling from the heavens and eventual darkness. The seventh will signal the second coming of Christ, and the defeat of Satan’s armies and the Antichrist, and the final judgment.”

“They’re certainly firm believers in the Apocalypse,” Kretsch said. “Rumor is that they’re stockpiling supplies on the island in preparation.”

“Hornett called their camp the Citadel,” Cork said. “Which sounds sort of like siege mentality, but I didn’t see any evidence of huge stockpiles.”

“Stump Island’s a big place,” Kretsch said. “You could hide an army there.”

Bascombe said, “I don’t see what that has to do with the Smalldog girl.”

Cork shook his head. “I don’t know either. Except that everything Hornett said rang wrong. I don’t like to go on hunches, but I’ve got a hunch they weren’t being exactly forthcoming with us.”

“That may have nothing at all to do with Smalldog or Jenny’s baby,” Bascombe pointed out.

Jenny’s baby. Cork realized it was the first time anybody had used that term, had spoken it, anyway. It didn’t please him. The child wasn’t Jenny’s responsibility, wasn’t the responsibility of any of them. Though it wasn’t the baby’s fault, he was dangerous. Death shadowed him, and that shadow had fallen across Cork’s family. Cork was determined, as soon as was humanly possible, to get the baby into the hands of the proper authorities. But he tabled that issue for the moment and returned to the matter at hand.

He said, “If you’re looking at one thing that’s amiss and you stumble onto another, in my experience, it pays to look for connections.”

Kretsch said, “I agree. But how do we take a closer look?”

“Do you have access to the Internet here, Seth?”

“Yep,” Bascombe said, “but it won’t do you any good. My computer crashed a while back, and I haven’t had any reason to get it fixed. I kind of like not being connected with all the craziness of the world outside the Angle.”

Cork swung his gaze to the window. Beyond, the lake was growing pale in the dying light. A few stars were already twinkling in the eastern sky. He thought for a moment about asking Bascombe to take him to the mainland, where he might find what he wanted. But the wind was still blowing strong, and waves galloped across the water like wild horses. And he was dead tired. They were all tired, he could see.

“Why don’t we get a good night’s sleep,” he suggested. “We can tackle all this again in the morning. And maybe we can figure the best way to get the child to where he ought to be.”

He glanced at Jenny, expecting an objection, but all he got from her was a stone-hard stare.

Bascombe said to Kretsch, “You probably want to get back to the mainland, Tom.”

Kretsch must have heard the weariness in the other man’s voice. “If you’ve got an extra bunk, Seth, I’d be fine sleeping here tonight. That way we can get an early start tomorrow.”

“You can have the last cabin,” Bascombe said and sounded relieved. “I’ll get some bedding.”

“If you’ve got a sleeping bag I could throw on the bunk, that’ll do.”

“I have, but it smells of woodsmoke.”

“I’m so beat it could smell of skunk and I wouldn’t care.”

They all laughed and, quiet and tired, rose from the table to get ready for the night.

THIRTY-ONE

Jenny couldn’t sleep. Her body vibrated. From exhaustion, probably, but also from something else, something that felt to her like vigilance. It was much the same feeling she’d had the night before, stranded on that island. But she was safe here, wasn’t she?

She lay in her bunk listening to Anne’s soft, steady breathing from the other side of the small cabin, listening to the great breath of the wind outside. Before lying down that night, she’d drawn aside the curtains over the eastern windows so that the moon would light the room and she could see the baby. He lay in the wicker basket on the floor within easy reach of her hand.

Aaron slept in another cabin with Stephen. It was odd, having him so near but not sharing her bed. Odd but not unpleasant. The moment she’d seen the look of horror on his face at the sight of the child’s cleft lip, something had changed in her. Something, she knew, had died. It wasn’t a whole thing but an essential. As if her love for Aaron had lost its heart. She couldn’t hide it from him. He’d gone to the cabin with Stephen walking like a man to a prison cell.

The baby began to fuss. Jenny had already prepared a bottle, and Bascombe had insisted she take a hot plate and saucepan to her cabin so that she could heat the formula easily in the night. She got up and, in her preparations, woke her sister.

“Go back to sleep. I’m just seeing to the baby.”

“You’re a good mom,” Anne said drowsily, and she rolled over and faced the wall. In only a moment, she was breathing deeply and steadily again.