Grace was right behind him, holding onto Scott’s hand. Jo followed with Stevie in tow. Outside, smoke thick as fog rolled off a tide of flame that had engulfed the trees on the far side of the clearing, a little over a hundred yards away. Sparks had ignited fires in the tall, dry grass that surrounded the cabin. The man who led them ran a crazy zigzag between islands of flame. Stevie’s small legs couldn’t keep up and he fell. Jo turned back and scooped him up in her arms. When she turned around, the fire had closed in front of her, blocking her way. She sprinted left, toward the only gap she saw. She cleared the wall of fire just as the flames licked at her heels. She saw a truck with a camper shell parked among the trees at the clearing’s edge. The tailgate was down. Grace and Scott were sliding inside. The man was gesturing furiously for Jo to hurry. When they reached the truck, he lifted Stevie and tossed him in back. Jo leaped in beside her son and the man slammed shut the tailgate and dropped the door of the camper shell, locking them inside.
The fire moved with incredible speed. Already it had eaten the cabin and the whole of the clearing and was now racing through the crowns of the pine trees along the logging road. Jo knelt and peered through the rear window of the cab and through the windshield beyond. The man jumped in behind the wheel. Over his right shoulder, Jo could see that the tiny corridor of road ahead of them was solid fire on both sides. The man glanced back and in the glow of the flames, Jo looked into his face and he into hers. He turned away, jammed the truck into gear, and gave it gas. The tires spun on dry dirt, then caught. The truck hit second gear and the flaming corridor at the same time. Jo dropped and clutched Stevie to her. Fire splashed against the sides and rolled off the tailgate. The air inside the camper shell grew so hot it threatened to sear her lungs.
Then they were out. Beyond the flames. Through the back of the camper shell, Jo could see fire touching the sky, but as she turned and peered ahead through the rear window of the cab, all she could see beyond the windshield was lush woods, dark and cool. The truck bounced wildly over the old road as the man kept pushing for speed, putting distance between his truck and the fire. Jo’s head slammed against the roof. She hunkered down beside Stevie.
They didn’t stop for miles, until they came to a place where the logging road opened onto well-graded dirt and gravel. They were still in deep woods, but by then the fire was only a distant glow against the night sky behind them. The man behind the wheel pulled over and killed the engine. Immediately, Jo slid to the tailgate and tried to open it. The inside latch was broken. She heard the man in the cab cry, “Shit!” and felt the pickup shake as he pounded angrily on the dashboard. He threw the cab door open, and kicked the side of the truck. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” he screamed. Jo slid back to Stevie and took him in her arms.
The tailgate dropped, and the rear window of the camper shell lifted. A flashlight beam shot in at them.
“Here. Your damn medicine,” the man said. He threw a plastic bag into the light.
In the beam of the flashlight, Grace dumped the contents from the bag—several syringes in individual packets and a small box. She took a bottle from the box, opened a syringe, and jabbed the needle into the bottle’s thin membrane covering. Scott offered her his leg and she drew back the cuff of his shorts to expose the top of his thigh.
“Could you hold the light a little steadier, please?” she asked.
“Just poke him, for Christ’s sake.”
She slipped the needle into Scott’s skin and slowly depressed the plunger. When she was finished, she put everything back into the bag, then looked directly into the light. Her eyes were blue and shiny. “Thank you,” she said.
“Give me the stuff.”
She slid it to him across the bed of the pickup. He rolled her the duct tape.
“Now,” he said, “tape his wrists behind him.”
“Please—” Grace began.
“Just do it,” he yelled.
She pulled off a long piece of tape and used her teeth to tear it from the roll. She took her son’s hands, guided them behind his back, and bound his wrists. “Are you all right, sweetheart? Does that hurt?”
He shook his head.
“Tape his mouth.” When she’d done as he’d asked, he said, “Now you.” He jabbed a finger into the light, pointed at Jo. “Tape her the same way.”
Jo did so, bound Grace’s wrists and ankles and put tape over her mouth. “I’m sorry, Grace,” she said.
“Now you. Turn around.”
Jo scooted toward the tailgate, turned, and put her hands behind her. He taped them.
“You come down here, too, boy,” he said to Stevie. Stevie didn’t budge.
“Come here, boy, or by God, I’ll shoot you where you sit.”
“You’d save us only to kill a child?” Jo shot back at him.
Behind the light, the man fell silent. He stepped away from the truck and looked up at the night sky a while. Jo heard him whisper, “Jesus.” When he came back and spoke, the harshness was gone. “I’m not going to hurt you, son, I promise.”
Still, Stevie did not move. The man lowered the beam. Jo studied his face and saw only weariness there. “You won’t hurt him?” she asked.
“I won’t hurt him.”
“Come here beside me, Stevie,” Jo said.
Stevie hesitated.
“Come on,” Jo urged him. “It will be all right, I promise.”
Slowly, Stevie crawled to his mother. The man bound his small wrists with a single loop of tape. He didn’t bother with Stevie’s ankles or his mouth.
“You last,” the man said, and he closed up Jo’s lips with duct tape.
“Everybody scoot together,” he said when he was done. He sounded exhausted. “And hold tight. There’s still some rough road ahead.”
They huddled against one another. The man closed the camper shell, raised and locked the tailgate. A moment later, the truck started off.
They weren’t free, but they weren’t dead either, and they’d come close to that. Jo knew there was a lot of reason to be hopeful. Unfortunately, she knew there was, perhaps, even greater reason to be concerned… For she had looked into the man’s face and had recognized him. And he knew it.
33
NOBODY WANTED TO GO TO BED. Separating, going to their own rooms, lying alone with their fears seemed impossible. The girls brought down their pillows and blankets, curled up at opposite ends of the sofa, and slept. Rose, in her robe, napped in the recliner. Cork sat in the easy chair, but sleep did not come. He couldn’t stop thinking, even though his thinking took him nowhere. He stared at the telephone, hoping Schanno would call with something. The phone refused to ring. Finally he got up and touched his sister-in-law’s shoulder very gently. She jerked awake.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “I’m going back out to Lindstrom’s.”
“What can you do there?” Rose asked.
Cork had no good answer. But Rose nodded and said, “I understand.”
Even with the moon already high in the sky, the night seemed dark. Cork followed the highway around the southern end of Iron Lake, then headed north along the eastern shore. He turned onto the drive to Grace Cove and saw a line of headlights racing toward him from Lindstrom’s place. As he pulled to the side of the road, two dark green Luminas he knew to be FBI vehicles sped past, followed by the Bonneville that belonged to the BCA. Bringing up the rear was Wally Schanno in his Land Cruiser. Schanno’s vehicle skidded to a stop beside Cork’s Bronco. Schanno rolled his window down, and he hollered, “Get in! Things are happening!”
Cork wasted no time complying, and the sheriff’s Land Cruiser shot off, following the others, who were headed north toward the reservation.
“What’s going on?” Cork asked, buckling in.
“The agents that had the Hamilton woman and her son under surveillance reported a visitor about an hour ago. Didn’t get an ID. A few minutes later, their van peels out of the park on the rez and heads to Isaiah Broom’s place. FBI’s had Broom under surveillance, too.
Hamilton, her boy, and their visitor all go inside. Five minutes later, Broom rushes out and him and the Hamilton kid load the back of Broom’s pickup truck with what appears to be crates of dynamite. Then they hook up a trailer carrying a Bobcat, and they all head off again, this time to George LeDuc’s place. That’s where they are now.”
“Dynamite,” Cork said. “Are they sure?”
“They seem to be.”
Schanno’s radio crackled. “Come in, Miss Muffet, do you read me? Over.”
Cork heard a voice he recognized as Agent Kay reply, “Loud and clear. What’s shaking?”
“They’re on the move again, headed your way. LeDuc’s not with them. He’s just standing by his pickup. He seems to be waiting.”
“Cordell’s team stays with LeDuc. You follow the others. “
“Ten-four.”
Kay’s voice again: “Earl, Schanno, did you copy that?”
Earl said he did. Schanno spoke into his mike, “We stay on this road and we’ll run into ‘em headlong in a few minutes. We need to disappear. Over.”
Kay was silent on her end of the conversation. Cork said, “Have them pull off at the old landing. It’s just ahead. The aspen will hide the cars.”
Schanno relayed Cork’s suggestion.
“That’s a ten-four,” Kay said.
They entered the turnaround at the landing, the same access that might have been used to take Jo and Stevie and the others off the lake after the kidnapping. An evidence team had got a tire imprint that indicated someone had been there recently, at any rate. They maneuvered until they were positioned to head quickly back onto the county highway, and they killed their vehicle lights.
“Dynamite and George LeDuc,” Cork said. “This isn’t adding up, Wally.”
“Take it easy, Cork. Let’s just see what develops.”
In less than five minutes, Broom’s pickup zoomed past, flying way over the speed limit. The dusty green van with its faded evergreen tree on the side was right behind it.
“Let’s give them plenty of room,” Kay said. Half a minute later, the FBI cars pulled out. Earl and Schanno followed.
Cork said, “The road’s always deserted this time of night. A caravan like this one they’re going to spot for sure no matter how far back we stay.”
“Not my call, Cork,” Schanno replied.
Cork could see the red taillights of the van and pickup less than half a mile ahead. The distance began very suddenly to increase.
“They’ve made us,” Kay said over the radio. “Hit your lights and make some noise. We’re going to bring them down.”
“This is Captain Lucky Knudsen. I’ve got a couple of cruisers ready to move into a barricade position on your command, Miss Muffet. Over.”
“Do it, Captain.”
“Ten-four.”
From the radio came yet another voice Cork didn’t recognize. “Miss Muffet, this is Cordell.”
“What is it, Cordell?”
“LeDuc’s been joined by half a dozen men. They’ve piled into the back of his pickup and they’re on their way, heading straight for you.”
“Stay with them. We’ll be ready on this end. Over and out.”
A few minutes later, Cork saw the red-and-white blink far down the shoreline where the state patrol had established a position. Ahead, the van and the pickup slowed, then pulled to a stop a hundred yards shy of the barricade. The cars in pursuit closed in swiftly from behind and parked in a spread so that the two suspect vehicles were fully illuminated in the glare of eight headlights. The doors of the Luminas sprang open, and federal agents, weapons drawn, took up covering positions.
Special Agent Margaret Kay shouted, “This is the FBI. Exit your vehicles with your hands raised.”
After a moment’s pause, the door of Broom’s pickup swung open, and the big Indian emerged with his hands high and a sour look on his face. The driver’s door of the van also opened, and what appeared to be a rifle barrel jutted out.
“Drop your weapon,” Kay ordered.
“It’s not a weapon, you imbecile,” Joan Hamilton yelled. “It’s my cane.” She eased herself out and stood on the asphalt, leaning on her cane, her free hand lifted high.
Another figure slid carefully out of the van after her, his old hands raised toward the sky.
“Henry?” Cork uttered, dumbfounded to see Meloux there.
“Turn around and place your hands on your vehicles,” Kay commanded. “And keep them there.” When they’d complied, she called out sternly, “Brett Hamilton, step out of the van now.”
No one came forth.
“Tell your son to come out, Ms. Hamilton. We don’t want anyone hurt.”
“He’s not with us.”
“We know he is.”
“What you people know wouldn’t fill a thimble.”
Kay waved her agents forward. Two men approached the back of the van, weapons readied. When they popped open the rear doors, it was clear that Brett Hamilton was not, in fact, present.
Kay said, “Gooden, you and Stewart take Broom.”
The two agents moved to Isaiah Broom, who leaned with his hands on the cab of his pickup truck. They patted him down, then began to question him. Kay and the other agents walked to Joan Hamilton and Henry Meloux, Cork and Schanno following like shadows.
“Frisk them,” Kay ordered.
Cork stepped forward. “Henry—”
“Sir, step back,” an agent named Hauser instructed him.
“This man’s no criminal, for Christ’s sake.”
“Sir, I won’t ask you again.”
Schanno put a restraining hand on Cork’s arm. “Let them do their job.”
“What’s this all about?” Joan Hamilton asked.
“You were attempting to elude officers of the law.”
“We didn’t see you.”
“You can argue that in court. Where’s your son?”
“I told you, he’s not with us.”
“My people saw him.” Kay gestured to one of her men. “Brian, take Sweeney and Jensen and sweep the trees and brush along the roadside. He can’t have gone far. And be careful.”
“He’s not armed,” the Hamilton woman said, her voice betraying her concern.
“David, take Ms. Hamilton to the car and talk with her. Jeff, you’ve got Mr….” She glanced at Cork.
“Meloux,” Cork said. “Henry Meloux.”
She nodded and the agent drew Meloux aside. Kay went to the rear of the van and looked in. BCA agents Owen and Earl stepped up beside her, along with Cork and Schanno.
“I’d love to search it,” Kay said.
“The explosives in Broom’s truck seem good probable cause for the stop,” Earl offered. “And it was clear they were attempting to elude us.”
Gooden left off his questioning of Broom and joined the others at the back of the van.
“What’s his story about the dynamite?” Kay asked.
“He uses it in his business.”
“That’s true,” Cork confirmed. “He clears trees, blows a lot of stumps.”
“A strange hour to be blowing stumps,” Kay said.
Gooden went on. “He says he was going to use it to fight a fire that’s burning in those old pines, Our Grandfathers.”
Kay turned to Schanno. “Have you heard anything about a fire up there?”
“No.”
“Let’s see what the others have to say.”
They all told the same story. That Meloux had come to Joan Hamilton warning of a fire that threatened Our Grandfathers. They’d gone to Broom because he had the materials, equipment, and expertise to help. Finally, they’d enlisted George LeDuc to round up more hands to fight the blaze.
“It’s certainly consistent with everything we’ve seen,” Schanno observed.
“It might also be consistent with a conspiracy to plant more explosives in the name of Eco-Warrior,” Kay pointed out.
“So the pertinent question is whether there’s actually a fire burning in t
he area of Our Grandfathers,” Earl concluded.
Cork said, “If Meloux claims there’s fire, then there’s fire.”
“I’ll check with the Forest Service,” Schanno volunteered, and he headed back to his Land Cruiser.
Cork walked to the FBI car where Meloux was being held. “You okay, Henry?”
Meloux answered with a shrug, but he looked tired and sad.
“There’s fire, isn’t there, Henry?”
“Sometimes,” the old man said with a slow shake of his head, “I wonder what Kitchimanidoo can be thinking.”
Schanno returned and Cork followed him back to the van. “Nothing,” Schanno reported. “The Forest Service has had no reports of fire anywhere near those old trees.”
“All right,” Kay said. “Let’s search the van.”
Gooden and another agent put on gloves and entered the vehicle.
“Margaret,” one of Kay’s agents called from his Lumina. “Cordell radioed. LeDuc’s truck is just down the road. It’ll be here in a minute.”
By now, Lucky Knudsen and his men had joined the gathering of law enforcement around the pickup and the van. Kay spoke to all the officers in a general caution. “This could get tense. I expect everyone to exercise reasonable restraint.”
Cork looked around him, and what he saw made him afraid. In the glare of the headlights that lit up only a small area of the night around them, a lot of people with guns stood together in a loose, unorganized confederation that represented the white man’s law. That they believed what they were doing was right didn’t offer Cork much hope. The truckful of Indians who were approaching undoubtedly believed that an important, perhaps even sacred, responsibility lay on their shoulders, and they, too, believed that right was on their side. He could feel the tension as the officers around him silently watched the headlights coming. And he couldn’t help thinking of that moment not very long ago at Burke’s Landing when Death, invoked by a misguided belief in righteousness, had stepped from behind a gentle curtain of morning rain and senselessly struck down two men.
LeDuc’s pickup slowed and stopped in the dark on the road fifteen yards back of the spread of cars that had penned in Broom and Hamilton and Meloux. As George LeDuc stepped from the cab, the FBI car that contained Agent Cordell’s team closed in from behind. LeDuc froze, blinking in the glare of their headlights, trying to make sense of the whole scene. Cordell and two other agents leaped from the car and leveled their weapons. The men in the back of the pickup—a half dozen of them, all with the powerful upper bodies of men who logged timber—stood up, holding weapons of their own. Axes and chainsaws.