William Krueger - Northwest Angle

Darrow didn’t appear to think that required a reply.

“It’ll have to be a pretty strong signal to reach anyone from here.”

“It’ll be strong,” Darrow said.

“And what will your message be?”

“Don’t fuck with us,” Billings said.

Cork scratched his unshaved jaw, making a sound like rubbing sandpaper. “I don’t recall that line from scripture.”

“He means,” Darrow interjected, “that we’re about the Lord’s work up here, and in a Godless world the righteous will stand firm.”

“Yeah,” Billings said. “What I meant.”

“A mighty fortress, is that it?” With a sweep of his hand, Cork indicated the camp.

“Do you believe in the End of Days?” Darrow asked him seriously.

“I have to admit, I have my doubts.”

“Then you’ll perish, brother. And the last words you hear will be coming from us, broadcast over our tower there.”

Kretsch said, “Telling the rest of us that you told us so?”

Darrow gave the deputy a dark look. “It’s all God’s word, all laid out in the Bible, if you ever took the time to read it.”

Cork could have argued, but he’d learned a long time ago that, when confronting men with big rifles and little minds, discretion was best.

The community hall sat on a slight rise ahead, and Cork saw that, like the night before, an armed guard stood at the entrance.

Kretsch said, “Mind if we have a look inside your community hall?”

Which was exactly what Cork was thinking.

“I don’t think so,” Darrow said.

“Hornett took us in the other day.”

“That was Gabriel and that was then.”

“You have your church sanctuary inside, right?” Cork said.

“Yes.”

“Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not,” Cork said.

Darrow gave him a blank look.

Cork said, “Gospel according to Luke. If you ever took the time to read it.”

“You want in, come back when Gabriel is here.”

“When would that be?”

“Don’t know.”

Kretsch said, “We’ve had some reports of the sound of heavy gunfire on Stump Island. Automatic weapons, machine guns, that kind of thing. Know anything about that?”

“Don’t have a clue,” Darrow said.

Kretsch nodded toward the firearms the two men sported. “You ever fire those rifles, do some practice shooting?”

“We practice.”

“Got a firing range?”

“Nothing formal.”

“Not much of a fortress here if you can’t defend it,” Kretsch said.

“Oh, we can defend it,” Billings said. “Just try us.”

“You got some ID?” Kretsch asked the man.

“What for?”

“You don’t sound Minnesotan. Just wondering where you’re from.”

“Mississippi, not that it’s any business of yours.”

“What about you?” Kretsch asked Darrow.

“Idaho.”

“Folks here from all over?”

“All over,” Darrow replied.

“Gathering because you really believe the final days are upon us.”

“You got to be blind to miss the signs,” Billings said.

Kretsch looked to Cork. “Seen enough?”

“There’s one more thing I’d like to have a look at,” Cork said.

“Yeah? What’s that?” Darrow was growing surlier by the minute.

“The boathouse.”

Darrow thought it over, gave a shrug, and turned back toward the lake. He led them to the boathouse, from which, the night before, Cork and Kretsch had seen Smalldog’s cigarette boat depart. He opened the door and let them have a look inside. The slip was empty.

“Where’s the boat you keep in here?” Kretsch asked.

“We don’t keep nothing in here. All our boats we keep at the dock.”

“We saw two boats tied up at the dock day before yesterday,” Cork said. “They’re both still there. What did the Hornetts use to go wherever it is that they went?”

Darrow hesitated a moment too long, then said, “Someone picked them up.”

“Who?” Kretsch asked.

“Didn’t see. Let’s go.” With the barrel of his rifle, Darrow waved them back outside.

On the dock, Kretsch pulled out his wallet, took a business card from inside, and handed it to Darrow. “Have Gabriel give me a call when he returns.”

“Whatever,” Darrow said, and Cork had the feeling that, as soon as they were gone, the man would tear the card into little pieces. Or maybe eat it.

They cast off and motored away slowly.

“What do you think?” Kretsch said.

“An island of really scary loonies,” Cork answered.

“They’re hiding something, and my guess is that it’s in the community hall.”

Cork thought the same thing. “Their arsenal, maybe?”

Kretsch said, “Big structure, huge foundation. If there’s a sublevel to that place, you could park a battalion of tanks down there.” He shook his head. “Still got nothing for a search warrant, though.”

“Maybe Bascombe will have found something,” Cork said.

Kretsch turned the boat north toward Oak Island, far beyond the empty horizon. Just as he eased the throttle forward, Cork said, “Wait!”

Along the shoreline of Stump Island, among the trees a good two hundred yards outside the camp buildings, he spotted a figure waving to them wildly. He took the field glasses he’d brought and put them to his eyes.

“Who is it?” Kretsch asked.

“Joshua Hornett’s wife.”

“Mary, right? Believes she’s the mother of Christ?”

“Whatever she believes, it’s pretty clear she wants us to come to her.” Cork swung the field glasses back toward the camp and saw that the men who’d escorted them were no longer on the dock. “Let’s see what she wants. Can you get in close?”

Kretsch checked the GPS display. “It’ll be tricky, but we can make it.”

He swung the boat east and came carefully at the shoreline. The woman waited for them, pacing like a tiger, glancing nervously in the direction of the compound. As soon as the boat was near enough, she called out, “Please take me away from here!” She looked prepared to leap into the water and swim to them.

“Easy,” Cork called back. “We’re almost there.”

He went to the bow, watched the water for rocks, and waved at Kretsch to cut the motor when they were still a few yards out. He eased himself over the side and waded to the woman.

“You’ll have to get into the water, ma’am,” he said gently. “That’s as close as we can get.”

She nodded her assent and let him help her to the boat, where Kretsch lifted her over the gunwale. Cork followed her up.

“Are you all right?” Kretsch asked her.

She looked up at him with startled green eyes. “They killed my son,” she said. Which was exactly what she’d said to them a couple of days before in the community hall.

“I understand,” Kretsch said and shot Cork a look that told him they were dealing with another loony.

“No,” the woman said. “You don’t. They killed my son.” She wore a simple dress the color of old butter and with a faint checkered pattern across it. There was a pocket sewn to the front of the skirt. She reached into the pocket, brought out a photograph, and handed it to Kretsch. Cork moved to look over the deputy’s shoulder. It was a color Polaroid, worn and clearly much-handled. It showed the woman, a good deal younger, with a baby cradled in her arms. The baby looked to Cork to be only a few weeks old. His face was wide and his eyes oddly angled. Down syndrome, Cork thought. There were mountains in the background. The woman looked happy.

“This is your son?” Cork asked.

“Was my son,” she said. “I named him Adam.”

Kretsch handed the photograph back and asked gently, “What happened to Adam?”

“They killed him,” she said, and a moment later, she began to cry.