William Krueger - Northwest Angle

Cork handed the field glasses to Kretsch and indicated the great hall and the man who stood before it. Kretsch spent a moment looking, lowered the glasses, leaned close to Cork’s ear, and whispered, “Is that an assault rifle he’s carrying?”

Cork nodded. Bright lights and armed guards. What was this group protecting?

The door of the great hall opened, illuminating the shadowed entryway, and several people emerged. They spoke for a moment with the man who shouldered the assault rifle. Their voices carried but so low that Cork couldn’t make out the actual words. Their backs were turned, and even with the field glasses, he couldn’t make out who they were. They moved quickly on, leaving the man with the assault rifle stationed where he’d been, and headed toward the dock. Cork followed them with the glasses and watched them enter the boathouse. A light came on there, and a minute later he heard a deep roar in the windless night, the sound of big engines. A boat backed out onto the lake, then shot south across the big water, running without lights.

“A cigarette boat,” he whispered to Kretsch.

“Smalldog?” the deputy asked.

Cork hadn’t seen enough to answer that question.

Two figures reemerged from the boathouse and returned to the great hall. A short while later, the light inside went out. The guard had finished his cigarette by then, and he began to patrol the perimeter of the building. He disappeared in back, and Cork swung the field glasses to the compound yard, because he’d spotted something there. Near the broadcast tower was another figure, this one draped in white and moving slowly, drifting like mist.

“Who does that look like to you?” He handed the glasses to Kretsch.

Kretsch studied the ghostly figure. “It’s Hornett’s wife. The woman who thinks she’s the Virgin Mary.”

Cork took the glasses from Kretsch and watched as Mary Hornett, who wore a white shawl though it was a warm night, went to the dock and stood at the very end, staring out across the big water. Cork thought that she might be looking where the powerful engines could still be heard from the south, then realized she wasn’t paying any attention to the cigarette boat. Her face was turned toward the night sky.

In the silence that had descended with the cease of the wind, Cork’s ears caught something surprising.

“Hear that?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Kretsch said. “Is she singing?”

“She’s singing,” Cork confirmed.

“I can’t quite make it out.”

Cork said, “Twinkle, twinkle, little star.”

The song died abruptly, and a different sound came to Cork, a deep and prolonged wail. He understood that in its own way this was also a song. The heartbreaking song of grief.

“I think we’ve seen enough,” he said. “Let’s get out of here before someone spots us.”

FORTY

Aaron’s call had come near sunset, telling them that Kretsch had brought the boat safely to the south shore of the big water, and that Jenny and the baby and Stephen and he were on their way to Meloux’s cabin. Even so, no one could sleep. Rose and Anne made cookies and coffee, and Mal and Bascombe played cribbage, and they waited deep into the night to hear the sound of Kretsch’s small boat motoring up to the dock. They watched the clock on the wall, and nearly an hour after the stroke of midnight, Bascombe said to no one in particular, “They should have been here by now.”

“Can you raise them on the radio in your boat?” Rose asked.

Bascombe shook his burly head. “Tom wanted to run silent. He didn’t want to take a chance on anyone picking up anything over the air. No telling who might be monitoring transmissions.”

“And there’s no cell phone reception out there?”

Again, Bascombe’s answer was a dour shake of his head.

“The wind’s died down,” Anne noted. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Not necessarily,” Bascombe replied. “Means the sound of Tom’s engine’ll carry pretty far in all directions. If someone’s watching for him, he’ll be easier to spot.”

“Who’d be watching for him?” Mal asked.

Bascombe laughed, not a funny sound. “Besides Smalldog? Could be half the Angle for all I know. This whole business has me looking at all my neighbors in a different way. And frankly, I don’t like it.”

Rose said, “They grope in darkness with no light; he makes them stagger like drunkards.”

“What’s that?” Bascombe said.

“From the Book of Job,” Mal replied. “A book about trust in God and patience in the face of adversity.”

Bascombe cast them both a cold eye. “Religion,” he said, as if spitting.

Anne brought the coffeepot around to refill cups. “What do you have against religion, Seth?” she asked.

Bascombe lifted his cup to his thick lips. Before sipping, he replied, “Seen way too much bad to believe there’s anybody up there trying to do any good. Or if there is, they don’t know their ass from applesauce.” He paused, and a modestly contrite look came over his face. “I know you folks are religious, but that’s the way I feel.”

“No need to apologize,” Mal said.

Bascombe drank his coffee and fell into a brooding silence.

Rose picked up her mug and walked to the window of the lodge. Outside, the lake was calm at last and so white under the moon that she thought it resembled a great meadow after a snowfall. In the room at her back, she felt an uncomfortable tension that came from Bascombe. She understood the big man’s despair of religion and his doubt of God, and she thought that maybe she ought to say something to take the thorns out of his thinking, but honestly, she had her own doubts.

Then she heard the sound of an engine, and across the lake appeared a long, dark trail of disturbed water, which Rose discerned was the wake of a boat. Running lights came on, and she turned back to the others. With a clear note of relief, she said, “They’re here.”

* * *

“These folks are deadly serious about End Times,” Mal said after Cork and Kretsch had told their story.

“I don’t understand why Smalldog would be there,” Anne said. “What does he have to do with their beliefs? Is he one of them?”

Cork said, “I’ve been thinking about that.” He had his hands wrapped around a mug of freshly brewed coffee, and on the table in front of him sat a couple of Rose’s good sugar cookies. “Judging from the casings Tom and I found on that firing range, I’m guessing they have some kind of arsenal out there. They had to get the hardware from someone, and from what I understand about Smalldog, he might be just the ticket. A man with a military background, already involved in smuggling.”

“Match made in hell, you ask me,” Bascombe said.

“Is there anything you can do about all those weapons?” Rose asked, directing her question toward Deputy Tom Kretsch.

Kretsch looked uncomfortable. “We didn’t find anything solid, really, and what we did find was because we were trespassing. I don’t imagine any judge would look kindly on that in considering a search warrant. And for all I know, they may have a license for all those firearms.”

A look of incredulity leapt to Rose’s face. “A license for a fifty-caliber machine gun?”

Bascombe said, “The sale of machine guns among private individuals is regulated by ATF, but not banned, provided the weapon in question was manufactured prior to 1986. The process is complicated, but not particularly difficult. So Tom’s right. It’s entirely possible that what they’re shooting out there is completely legal.”

Rose gave a snort of disapproval, to which Bascombe responded, “I understand your personal feelings here, but there’s a constitutional amendment that gives those folks the perfect right to bear arms. I believe strongly in that amendment myself.”