Free Northwest Angle by William Kent Krueger Page B

brought it, like a slaughtered animal, home. All of them, Rose thought, in their own ways, were still reeling. And now this. This pushing through the dark again.
    “Stephen,” Anne said, “it will be all right.”
    Her voice was gentle, but the strength in it was undeniable, something annealed in the fire of her heart. Several years earlier, when she was eighteen, she’d stood toe-to-toe with death during the rampage of a high school shooting. Bloodied, she had cradled the dying in her arms, had walked out of that hell a different person, had followed a road many would have called pointless. She was preparing to be a nun.
    “Okay,” Stephen said, though he didn’t sound fully convinced. “But say they didn’t make it all the way to the Northwest Angle. Where would they have put in?”
    “There are probably a thousand islands they could choose,” Anne replied.
    “How would we know which one?”
    “A signal fire?” Rose suggested.
    “Maybe they simply waited it out and then went on to the Angle,” Anne said.
    “No,” Stephen said. “They’d have come back to check on us after the storm passed.”
    He was right, Rose knew. But nothing of the dinghy had been seen or heard since Cork and Jenny motored away hours ago.
    “So, they took shelter on an island,” Rose said, “and they’re stranded, and the boat’s damaged. Okay?” She looked toward Stephen.
    This seemed to be a scenario he could accept. He nodded. “The fire would be difficult,” he said, thinking it through. “Everything’s wet. Did they take matches?”
    None of them knew.
    “He’s got gasoline in the outboard,” Stephen went on, as much to himself as to the others. “He could soak a bunch of the wood and all he would need would be a spark to get it going. Once he did that, he would just have to keep feeding it.” He looked north toward a long island that was like a black caterpillar on the shimmering surface of the lake. “We could probably see it a long way off.”
    “Or someone could,” Anne said.
    “What do you mean someone?”
    “I’m sure there are folks out searching for people lost in the storm. The Coast Guard, the sheriff’s office, the provincial police.”
    “And locals giving a hand,” Rose threw in.
    Stephen scanned the empty horizon. “Why haven’t we seen anyone?”
    “It’s a big lake,” Rose said. “But they’re out there, I’m sure.”
    She realized that her words weren’t just for Stephen. They helped her hold to her own hope.
    They were all quiet again. Again, for a long time.
    From the east came a sound like a buzz saw working through wood. All their heads turned in that direction, and six eyes scanned the liquid silver that was the lake.
    “A boat?” Anne asked.
    “Yeah,” Stephen said. “Powerful. Look, there it is!”
    He poked a finger into the wall of night, pointing directly toward the moon, where a broad avenue of silver lay across the water, and where, for a few moments, the black silhouette of a boat was visible.
    “A cigarette boat!” Stephen cried.
    “What’s a cigarette boat?” Rose asked.
    “A long, fast powerboat,” he replied. “They’re called cigarette boats because they’ve been used a lot to smuggle cigarettes into Canada. They were designed to outrun the boats the Coast Guard and customs people have.”
    “How can you tell it’s a cigarette boat?”
    “Gordy Hudacek’s father has one. I ride in it all the time on Iron Lake. They have a different look and sound to them, and, man, can they fly.”
    The boat was gone in almost the same instant she’d seen it.
    “I can’t tell which way it’s going,” Rose said.
    Stephen listened. “North,” he said. “It’s headed away from us.”
    “I don’t see running lights,” Anne said. “Aren’t you supposed to use running lights at night?”
    “Not if you’re smuggling,” Stephen said.
    “But it’s going so fast in all this . . . this garbage,” Rose said, indicating with a sweep of her hand the