They moved on Stone’s cabin after nightfall, before the moon rose. Cork, Larson, Rutledge, Willner, and a dozen deputies. They went silently, on foot, in armor, and carrying assault rifles, semiautomatic AR-15s. In the trees that crowded the dirt road, the black was almost impenetrable, but as they filed along the lake with the open sky above them, the ambient light of the stars lit their way. Ahead, the ridge behind Stone’s cabin cut a jagged silhouette against the star-dusted sky. Several of the men, including Cork and Larson, had night vision goggles. They crept single file up the rise that led to the cabin, which was completely dark. Cork put on his goggles.
“His Land Rover’s there,” he whispered to Larson, who was donning his own goggles.
Cork scanned the yard, empty except for the chopping block. He signaled and four deputies, with Morgan in charge, slipped along the edge of the trees outlining the yard and took up positions behind the cabin. Four others, led by Larson, spread themselves out in front undercover or in prone positions with a good line of sight. Rutledge and Willner stayed well back. Cork and the remaining deputies cautiously approached the front door.
Unlike many Ojibwe on the rez and the rural people of Tamarack County in general, Stone kept no dog to bark a warning. This may have been because he was gone for long periods of time, disappearing into the Boundary Waters, and a dog would be neglected. Cork thought it might also have been that Stone was a man for whom companionship, even that of a dog, was not only unnecessary, it was unwanted. Whatever the reason, Cork was grateful for the absence of any animal that might sound an alarm.
The curtains across the front window were drawn shut. There was no porch. He walked the hard ground silently and put his ear to the front door, listened for a full minute, then stepped back. Schilling and Pender readied the battering ram. On his signal, the two deputies splintered the pine boards.
“Police,” Cork shouted and rushed in. He glanced left, right. The room, luminescent green through the goggles, was vacant. The bathroom door was open, showing only empty space. “The bedroom,” he said to the others, and motioned his deputies to flank the closed door.
He stood off to the side. “Stone, this is Sheriff O’Connor. I have a warrant for your arrest. Come out now with your hands in the air.”
They waited. Cork’s heart hammered in his chest. He wanted this to be over quickly and cleanly, without shooting, without blood.
“Lizzie, are you in there?” he called.
Still no response. Cork tried the knob. Although it turned, the door didn’t open. Latched from the inside. Pender and Schilling had come into the cabin. He motioned them into position to use the ram. On his signal, they swung it forward and sent the door tumbling off its hinges. Immediately, they fell back, out of the line of fire through the doorway. Cork waited again, ready for gunshots, but heard only the heavy breathing of his own men. He waved the deputies to follow and swung into Stone’s bedroom.
The room was empty, the bed made, everything left in neat order like a hotel room awaiting the next guest.
Cork unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt. “All clear. Repeat, all clear. The chicken has flown the coop.”
They drove the vehicles up from the county road and parked with the lights shining on the cabin. Cork and those in charge stood outside the glare. The moon wasn’t visible yet, but there was a strong glow coming from behind the eastern hills. It washed out the stars on the horizon.
“Morgan’s certain no one came or left between our visit this afternoon and the raid,” Larson said. “The Land Rover’s still here. Wherever Stone’s gone, he’s on foot.”
“Into the Boundary Waters,” Cork said. “I can almost guarantee it. He knows those woods.”
“He can’t hide there forever,” Rutledge said.
Cork shook his head. “Stone’s one of the few people who probably could.”
“Maybe he’s trying to make it across the border into Canada.” Larson waved vaguely to the north. “Or slip out of the woods somewhere far away.”
“And what? Start over?” Cork didn’t hide his skepticism.
“What do you think, then?”
“I’m not sure. None of this has made a lot of sense so far.”
Dina Willner spoke up. “What about Lizzie Fineday?”
Earlier, they’d checked with relatives and friends. No one admitted having any knowledge of her whereabouts. Cork believed Stone had lied that afternoon when he said she was gone.
“I think we can assume he has her,” Cork said.
“Why would he take her?” Rutledge asked.
“I can think of at least three reasons. The best face to put on it would be that he’s trying to protect her. Or that he’s got a hostage if he’s cornered.”
“You said three reasons,” Willner pointed out.
“He might be thinking she’s the only witness against him in the shooting at the Tibodeau cabin and he’d rather not have her found. Period.” Cork turned to Larson. “Any word from Borkmann?”
As soon as they were certain the area was secure, Cork had directed his chief deputy to drive to the North Star Bar, apprise Will Fineday of what was going on, and escort him to Stone’s place.
“He’s on his way with Fineday. ETA fifteen minutes,” Larson said.
The cough of a gas engine turning over hit the quiet of the night, and a moment later, the engine settled into a steady thrum.
“Good,” Cork said. “Schilling’s got the generator going. Let’s get some lights on inside.”
Larson started in that direction with Cork right behind him, but Morgan called to him from a cruiser, “Cork, it’s Bos on the radio for you,” and the sheriff turned back.
“This is Cork. Go ahead.”
“Sorry to take you away, Cork, but Jo just called. She’s been trying to get hold of you. She sounded worried.”
An hour before hard dark, he’d tried to call her. He didn’t know what he might be walking into at Stone’s cabin, and he wanted to hear Jo’s voice, hear that the children were having a good time, that everyone was safe. Rose told him that Jo had gone out for the evening. A drink with Ben Jacoby. He’d chatted with his sister-in-law, then talked with each of his children. Jenny told him about her tour of Northwestern. Mr. Jacoby had arranged it, she said, had pulled strings. Cork told her that was a nice thing for him to have done. He told them all that he loved them, and at the end he thanked Rose for taking them in. “Should I have Jo call back?” she’d asked. “No,” Cork had replied. “Not necessary. Just tell her I love her.”
Afterward, he’d thought darkly, Jacoby.
“Any message, Bos?” Cork said over the radio.
“She just asked that you call her back as soon as you can.”
“Did you tell her anything about what’s going on up here?”
“Not a word. Didn’t want her to worry. I told her you were on a late call. Routine.”
“Thanks, Bos. Out.”
Cork headed to the cabin where Dina Willner stood looking through the door as Larson moved about carefully inside, trying not to disturb the scene any more than Cork and his men already had.
“No sign she was ever here,” Larson said, adjusting his wire-rims. “Was she hiding, you think, when we came this afternoon?”
It was a question with a hidden implication: that maybe Stone had already taken care of her for good, hidden the body somewhere, and cleaned away all trace of her presence.
“I don’t know,” Cork said.
He heard the cruiser coming up the road and headed down to meet it. Before Borkmann or Pender could exit the vehicle, Will Fineday was out and charging at Cork like an angry moose.
“You found her?” he said.
“Not yet, Will.”
“I’ll kill him,” Fineday said. “I should have killed him the other day.”
“When she ran, Will, why did she come here to Stone?”
“She was scared, not thinking. Stone, he’s a son of a bitch, but everybody’s afraid of him. She thought he could protect her.”
“From what?”
“You guys. She didn’t want to talk to cops.”
“We know she was in the SUV with Jacoby the night he was killed. Was it Jacoby who bruised her face?”
“The son of a bitch. When I found out, I wanted to kill him.”
“Did you?”
It was clear Fineday understood the direction this was going. Cork could see the struggle in the man’s head and his heart. The truth might land him a view cut by iron bars, but it might also save his daughter.
“You went to Mercy Falls that night, didn’t you, Will?” Cork said it quietly, and not as an accusation.
The threads-fear, distrust, prejudice-that had held him from speaking finally snapped and he nodded. “He was already dead when I got there, lying on the ground, blood everywhere. Somebody had cut his balls off, too. Shame. I wanted to do that myself.”
“Did Lizzie kill Edward Jacoby?”
“No, but I’d’ve understood if she did. The asshole beat her and raped her.”
“She told you she didn’t kill Jacoby?”
“Until I came back from Mercy Falls, she didn’t even know he was dead.”
“You believed her?”
“Yeah, I believed her.”
“Did you do anything at Mercy Falls?”
“Like what?”
“Interfere with the scene.”
Fineday studied the sky. “Maybe I wiped the door handles clean.”
“‘Maybe’?”
“I didn’t want Lizzie’s fingerprints there, okay? I picked up some beer bottles that might have had her prints on them.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing, I swear.”
“If you’d told me all this before, it might’ve saved a lot of trouble, Will.”
Fineday’s hard brown eyes leveled on him. “If you were full-blood or at least not a cop, maybe you’d understand.” He looked toward the cabin. “Where are they?”
“We think Stone went north, into the woods.”
“He knows the Boundary Waters better than anyone.” Fineday’s eyes traveled over the ridge that lay between the cabin and everything beyond. “He took her with him, didn’t he?”
“Maybe.”
“When I find him, I’ll tear out his goddamned heart.”
“Cork,” Larson called from the cabin. “Something here you’ve got to see.”
Cork walked to where Larson and Dina Willner awaited him at the door. “What is it?”
“Follow me.”
Larson led the way to the bedroom and stepped over the door that lay on the floor, torn off its hinges. He leaned over the bed and pointed toward an indentation in the pillow.
Cork took a step and saw what Larson meant. A large-caliber rifle bullet had been carefully placed in the center of the pillow.
“Jacketed round,” Cork said. “Just like the ones fired at the Tibodeau cabin.”
“It didn’t get there by accident,” Dina said.
Larson glanced at Cork. “What do you think it means?”
Cork crossed to the back window, pulled aside the curtain, shielded the glass so that he could see beyond the reflection of the room light. He stared out at the black silhouette of the ridge.
“It means we’ve got a long night ahead.”