Purgatory Ridge Paperback - 2009

1

CORCORAN OâÈçCONNOR WAS PULLED instantly from his sleep by the sound of a sniffle near his head. He opened his eyes and the face of his six-year-old son filled his vision.

âÈêIâÈçm thcared,âÈë Stevie said.

Cork propped himself on one arm. âÈêOf what, buddy?âÈë

âÈêI heard thomething.âÈë

âÈêWhere? In your room?âÈë

Stevie nodded.

âÈêLetâÈçs go see.âÈë

Jo rolled over. âÈêWhat is it?âÈë

âÈêStevie heard something,âÈë Cork told his wife. âÈêIâÈçll take care of it. Go back to sleep.âÈë

âÈêWhat time is it?âÈë

Cork glanced at the radio alarm on the stand beside the bed. âÈêFive oâÈçclock.âÈë

âÈêI can take him,âÈë she offered.

âÈêGo back to sleep.âÈë

âÈêMmmm.âÈë She smiled faintly and rolled back to her dreaming.

Cork took his son by the hand, and together they walked down the hallway to where the night-light in StevieâÈçs room cast a soft glow over everything.

âÈêWhere was the noise?âÈë

Stevie pointed toward the window.

âÈêLetâÈçs see.âÈë

Cork knelt and peered through the screen. Aurora, Minnesota, was defined by the barest hint of morning light. The air was quite still, not even the slightest rustle among the leaves of the elm in CorkâÈçs backyard. Far down the street, the BurnettsâÈç dog Bogart barked a few times, then fell silent. The only thing Cork found disturbing was the smell of wood smoke heavy on the breeze. The smoke came from forest fires burning all over the north country. Summer had come early that year. With it had come a dry heat and drought that wilted the undergrowth and turned fields of wild grass into something to be feared. Lake levels dropped to the lowest recorded in nearly a century. Rivers shrank to ragged threads. Creeks ceased to run. In shallow pools of trapped water, fish darted about wildly as what sustained them rapidly disappeared. The fires had begun in mid-June. Now it was nearly the end of July, and still the forests were burning. One blaze would be controlled and two others somewhere else would ignite. Day and night, the sky was full of smoke and the smell of burned wood.

âÈêDo you still hear it?âÈë Cork asked.

Stevie, whoâÈçd knelt beside him, shook his head.

âÈêProbably an early bird,âÈë Cork said.

âÈêAfter a worm.âÈë Stevie smiled.

âÈêYeah. And he mustâÈçve got that worm. Think you can go back to sleep?âÈë

âÈêYeth.âÈë

âÈêGood man. Come on.âÈë

Cork got him settled in bed, then sat in a chair near the window. Stevie watched his father a while. His eyes were dark brown, the eyes of his Anishinaabe ancestors. Slowly, they drifted closed.

CorkâÈçs son had always been a light sleeper, awakened easily by noises in the night, disturbances in the routine of the household. He was the only one of the OâÈçConnor children whoâÈçd needed the comfort of a night-light. Cork blamed himself. In StevieâÈçs early years, when the dark of his closet or under his bed first became vast and menacing, Cork wasnâÈçt always there to stand between his son and the monsters of his imagination. There were times, he knew, when the monster was real and was Cork. He thought often these days of the words that ended the traditional marriage ceremony of the Anishinaabeg.

You will share the same fire.

You will hang your garments together.

You will help one another.

You will walk the same trail.

You will look after one another.

Be kind to one another.

Be kind to your children.

He hadnâÈçt always been careful to abide by these simple instructions. But a man could change, and watching his son crawl back into his dreaming, Cork vowedâÈ'as he did almost every morningâÈ'to work at being a better man.

By the time Cork finally left Stevie to his dreaming, morning sunlight fired the curtains over the window at the end of the hallway. Cork thought of returning to bed for a little while, but chose instead to head to the bathroom, where he showered, shaved, splashed on aftershave, then looked himself over carefully in the bathroom mirror.

âÈò âÈò âÈò

Corcoran Liam OâÈçConnor was forty-seven years old. Part Irish, part Ojibwe Anishinaabe, he stood five feet eleven inches tall, weighed one hundred seventy-five pounds, and had brown eyes, thinning red-brown hair, and slightly crooked teeth. He suffered from mild rosacea that he treated with prescription ointment. In wet weather, his left shoulderâÈ'twice dislocatedâÈ'was prone to an arthritic aching. He did not consider himself a handsome man, but there were those, apparently, who found him so. All in all, what stared back at him from the bathroom mirror was the face of a man whoâÈçd struggled to be happy and believed himself to be almost there.

He returned to his bedroom, a towel about his waist. The radio alarm had gone off and WIRR out of Buhl was playing VivaldiâÈçs Four Seasons. Cork went to the dresser, pulled open a drawer, and took out a pair of black silk boxers.

Jo stirred. She took a deep breath but kept her eyes closed. When she spoke to him, the words seemed to come reluctantly and from a distant place.

âÈêStevie all right?âÈë

âÈêHeâÈçs fine.âÈë

âÈêAnother fireâÈçs started. Up in the Boundary Waters near Saganaga Lake.âÈë She yawned. âÈêI just heard it on the news.âÈë

âÈêOh?âÈë

âÈêGet this. The guy who started it is a lobbyist for the tobacco industry. He was shooting off fireworks. In the Boundary WatersâÈ'can you believe it?âÈë

âÈêI hope they fine his ass big time,âÈë Cork said.

âÈêHeâÈçs a tobacco lawyer. He can pay from his pocket money.âÈë The room was quiet. Bogart started barking again down the block. âÈêI can feel you watching me.âÈë

âÈêWhat else?âÈë

âÈêI smell Old Spice.âÈë

âÈêAnything else?âÈë

âÈêIf I had to guess, IâÈçd say youâÈçve put on your black silk boxers.âÈë

âÈêWhat a detective you would have made.âÈë He sat on the bed, leaned down, and kissed her shoulder.

âÈêI was dreaming before the radio came on.âÈë She rolled toward him and opened her eyes.

âÈêWhat?âÈë

âÈêWe were trying to fly, you and I. A plane we had to pedal. But somehow we couldnâÈçt quite get it off the ground.âÈë

Cork reached out and brushed a white-blond strand of hair from her cheek.

She reached up and drifted her hand down his chest. âÈêYou smell good.âÈë

âÈêOnly Old Spice. You have pedestrian tastes.âÈë

âÈêAnd, my, arenâÈçt you lucky.âÈë

He bent to her lips. She let him kiss her but kept her mouth closed. âÈêIâÈçm all stale. Give me five minutes.âÈë She slid from the bed. She wore a gray tank top and white cotton underwear, her usual sleep attire. âÈêDonâÈçt start anything without me.âÈë She smiled coyly as she went out the door.

Cork drew back the covers, straightened the bottom sheet, fluffed the pillows, and lay down to wait. The bedroom window was open. Bogart had ceased his barking and the only sound now was the call of a mourning dove perched in the big maple in the front yard. Aurora, Minnesota, deep in the great North Woods, riding the jagged edge of the Iron Range, had not yet wakened. This was CorkâÈçs favorite time of day.

Although he couldnâÈçt actually see it, he could picture the whole town perfectly. Sunlight dripping down the houses on Gooseberry Lane like butter melting down pancakes. The streets empty and clean. The surface of Iron Lake on such a still morning looking solid as polished steel.

God, he loved this place.

And heâÈçd begun to love again, too, the woman who now stood in the doorway with a gold towel wrapped about her and tucked at her breasts. Her hair was wet. Her pale blue eyes were wide awake and interested. She locked the door behind her.

âÈêWe donâÈçt have much time,âÈë she said in a whisper. âÈêI think I heard Stevie stirring.âÈë

âÈêWeâÈçre the experts at putting a lot into a little time.âÈë

He smiled wide, and widely he opened his arms.

An explosion kept them from beginning anything. The house shook; the windows rattled; the mourning dove fell silent, frightened to stillness or frightened away.

âÈêMy God,âÈë Cork said. âÈêWhat was that?âÈë

Jo looked at him, her eyes blue and shiny. âÈêI think the earth moved. Without us.âÈë She glanced at the window. âÈêSonic boom?âÈë

âÈêWhen was the last time you heard a sonic boom around here?âÈë

From the hallway beyond the bedroom door came the sound of voices, then a knock.

âÈêJo? Cork?âÈë

âÈêJust a minute, Rose.âÈë She blew Cork a kiss. âÈêRain check.âÈë She headed to the closet and grabbed a robe from the door hook.

Cork quickly exchanged his silk boxers for a pair of jogging shorts and went to the window. He stared north over the roofs of Aurora where a column of smoke rose thick and black somewhere beyond the town limits. Just above the ground, the air was calm and the smoke climbed straight up four or five hundred feet until it hit a high current that spread it east over Iron Lake. The sky was a milky blue from the haze of the distant forest fires. Against it, the smoke from the nearer burn was dark as crude oil.

At his back, Cork heard the door unlock. Rose stepped in, Stevie at her heels.

âÈêWhatever that was, it didnâÈçt sound good.âÈë Rose tugged her beige chenille robe tight about her broad waist and stuffed her plump, freckled hands into the pockets. She was JoâÈçs sister and for more than fifteen years had been part of the OâÈçConnor household.

Stevie ran to his father. âÈêThomething blew up.âÈë

âÈêI think something did, buddy.âÈë Cork put his arm around his son and motioned the others to the window, where they huddled and stared at the huge smoke cloud fanning out above the lake.

The siren on AuroraâÈçs only fire station began to wail, calling the volunteers to duty.

âÈêSee the direction that smokeâÈçs coming from?âÈë He glanced at Jo. âÈêAre you thinking what IâÈçm thinking?âÈë

From the concern on her face, it was clear to him that she was. She straightened and turned from the window. âÈêIâÈçd better go.âÈë

âÈêIâÈçll come with you.âÈë Cork started toward the dresser to get his clothes.

âÈêCork.âÈë Jo put a hand on his arm to restrain him gently. âÈêI have clients to protect. I need to be out there. But thereâÈçs no reason for you to go. YouâÈçre not the sheriff anymore.âÈë She seemed reluctant to add that last bit of a reminder, as if she were afraid that even after all this time, it still might hurt him.

He smiled gamely and said, âÈêThen letâÈçs just chalk it up to morbid curiosity.âÈë

Âû 2001 William Kent Krueger

William Kent Krueger is the New York Times bestselling author of The River We Remember, This Tender Land, Ordinary Grace (winner of the Edgar Award for best novel), and the original audio novella The Levee, as well as twenty acclaimed books in the Cork O'Connor mystery series, including Spirit Crossing, Fox Creek, and Lightning Strike. He lives in the Twin Cities with his family. Learn more at WilliamKentKrueger.com.