William Krueger - Northwest Angle

“Anyone can call themselves Christian, Rose. Doesn’t make it so. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. Probably every religion has its crazies.”

“To invoke God’s name in such cruelty,” she said. “It’s enough to break your heart.”

“Or make you really pissed.” Cork glanced down at Bascombe’s Marlin gripped in his left hand.

Rose saw his look. “Answering violence with violence, Cork? You told me a couple of years ago that you’d never lift a firearm against another human being again.”

“Any person who’d do what was done to Lily Smalldog or condone that kind of cruelty isn’t, in my book, a human being, Rose. Any person who might do that to a child of mine, I would kill without remorse. I’m funny that way.”

She reached out, and her hand was cool against his cheek. “I’m praying it won’t come to that.”

From the lodge door, Anne called out, “Come and get it.”

“So,” Bascombe said with a bit of egg caught in his beard, “we make an assault on Stump Island today?” He sounded eager.

“No assault, Seth,” Cork replied. “Just a lawful inquiry. And it’ll be only Tom and me going to Stump.”

“Whoa.” Bascombe lifted his head abruptly from where it had hovered over his plate as he shoveled his food in. “Wait a minute. I want a piece of this action.”

“I need you to do something else.”

“Yeah? What?” He didn’t sound happy.

“Your computer doesn’t work, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Is there somewhere on the Angle that you can get access to the Internet?”

“I guess lots of folks would let me use their computers if I asked.”

“Good. I’d like you to head to the mainland this morning while Tom and I are at Stump Island. Get onto the Internet and find out anything you can about the Church of the Seven Trumpets and the Hornetts.”

“Hell, that doesn’t sound like much fun.”

“It’s important. I’d like to know everything I can about these folks. Where they came from, if they’ve been in trouble before. It’s exactly the kind of thing you probably used to do in your work for ATF.”

“Yeah, but I always preferred being out in the field. And how is that going to get us to Smalldog?”

“That’s the second part of what I want you to do,” Cork said. “I want you to go over to Windigo Island and talk to Cherri Allen and Amos Powassin. See if any of the Ojibwe who went out yesterday found anything that might help us track down Smalldog.”

Bascombe’s eyes lit up at that. “Okay. But if we go hunting him, I’m not sitting that one out.”

“It’s a deal,” Cork said. “Mal, are you okay sporting a rifle on the home front here?”

“Like I did last night, I’ll hold the thing and make sure anyone who might be watching knows that I’ve got it. But, Cork, if it comes to having to shoot, I won’t promise.”

“I can’t imagine Smalldog would try anything in broad daylight. But I don’t know the man, so I can’t say for sure.”

Mal said, “I’ll do what I can.”

Near the end of the meal, Kretsch excused himself and went to his cabin. He came back dressed in the khaki uniform of a Lake of the Woods County sheriff’s deputy—badge, duty belt, and all.

“I don’t often wear it,” he admitted, “but I kind of like the feel of authority it lends.”

“You look magnificent,” Rose said.

When they’d finished breakfast, they headed to the dock. Cork and Kretsch got into the deputy’s boat, and Bascombe got into his launch.

“Be careful, Dad,” Anne said.

“I’ll be the picture of diplomacy,” Cork told her, and he hugged her for good measure.

Kretsch and Cork headed off first, then Bascombe. When Cork looked back, his daughter and Mal and Rose were still on the dock, huddled together, shielding their eyes against the strong morning sun as they watched the boats grow distant.

They rode out mostly in silence. As Stump Island loomed on the horizon, Kretsch turned to Cork and said, “I’ve never had to carry out any kind of real investigation on the Angle. Mostly I break up fights and arrest drunks and give out parking tickets. I know you were a county sheriff for a long time. Would you mind taking the lead on this?”

“I think you should ask the questions, Tom. It’s your jurisdiction. But tell you what, if there’s something I think you’ve missed, I’ll toss in a question or two of my own. Okay?”

Kretsch didn’t seem entirely comfortable with the arrangement, but he said, “Okay.”

Because Cork wanted a good look at the whole island before they landed, he asked Kretsch to circle Stump. What he saw was a wall of forest that could have hidden an army. With enough men and arms to defend it, that island, so isolated in the vast expanse of Lake of the Woods, would be a bitch to storm, whether by the forces of Satan or by the men and women of law enforcement.

It was nearing noon, and the sun was almost directly overhead. By the time they approached the dock on Stump Island, the day had turned hot. Two men came from the Seven Trumpets camp to meet them. Both carried rifles. Kretsch motored close, and Cork leaped from the boat with the bow line and tied up to a cleat. Kretsch killed the engine, tossed the stern line, and when Cork had finished securing the boat, joined him on the dock. They turned to meet their welcome committee.

“Good morning,” Kretsch said and introduced himself and Cork.

The two men were big and broad and wore army green ball caps that shaded square faces. One had longish blond hair; the other appeared to be completely bald.

The bald man said, “Morning,” in a way that suggested more a threat than a greeting.

“I’m looking for Gabriel Hornett,” Kretsch said, still chipper.

“Not here,” the man said.

“You mean he’s not on the island?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Could we speak with Abigail, then?”

“She’s not around either.”

“Both of them are gone?”

“I just said that, didn’t I?”

“Is there someone we could talk to, someone in charge? Joshua Hornett, maybe?”

“He’s not here either, and if he was, he wouldn’t be in charge. That’d be me.”

“And you are?”

“Darrow.”

“Is that a first or a last name?”

“First name’s Patrick.”

“And you are?” Kretsch said, addressing the blond-haired man, who’d stood like a fence post with eyes.

“Billings,” the man said. “Chester A.”

Kretsch nodded and looked past them toward the camp buildings. “Could you tell me where the Hornetts have gone?”

“Away,” Darrow replied.

“You don’t know where?”

“No idea.”

“You?” Kretsch asked Billings, Chester A.

Billings said nothing, only gave his head the faintest ghost of a shake.

“Mind if we look around a little?” Kretsch asked.

“Got a warrant?” Darrow challenged.

“No. Not looking for anything special. Why? You have something to hide?”

“Not a thing, Deputy.”

“Then there’s no reason we couldn’t just have a stroll, right? When we talked to Hornett day before yesterday, he was pretty hospitable.”

The two men exchanged a look, then Darrow gave a nod. “We’ll walk with you.”

In the absence of a wind, the day was still, and Cork heard metallic hammering ahead. When they cleared the first of the buildings and came in sight of the base of the broadcast tower, Cork saw several men at work there. At the moment, it appeared that getting the tower up was the primary business of Seven Trumpets. The story of the Tower of Babel came easily to Cork’s mind.

He said, “Two days ago, Hornett told us you folks’ll be broadcasting scripture and the like pretty soon.”