Free Manitou Canyon by William Kent Krueger

the rustling as she put on her coat, then the growl of the tent zipper, and she stepped outside.
    â€œOkay,” she said.
    â€œYou’ll need a light.”
    â€œI’ve got it.”
    She turned on the headlamp she’d worn when Cork had finally snuffed the flame of the Coleman lantern.
    Lindsay headed for the primitive pit toilet that was a part of every official campsite in the Boundary Waters. Cork picked his way slowly through the dark down the little path that led to the lakeshore. He had a flashlight, but chose not to use it. He relieved himself against the trunk of a pine tree, then stood looking across the lake. Sometime after they’d turned in for the night, the drizzle had finally ended, and now the cloud cover had thinned just enough that the phantom of a nearly full moon was visible. The lake reflected a gray, ghostly light, and far out in the water, Cork could see the black outline of the big island called Raspberry.
    As Cork stood watching, his eyes caught a pinpoint of lighthigh up on the rock ridge that formed a wall on the far side of the island. It was there for only a moment, then gone.
    He heard Lindsay returning, but she’d turned off her headlamp and came in the dark.
    â€œFunny how quick your eyes adjust out here, even in the least little light,” she said. “And there’s something about an artificial beam that feels out of place. Know what I mean?”
    He did.
    She stood beside him awhile, silent in the same way he was silent. “A beautiful place,” she said. “Until it eats someone you love.”
    â€œIt’s not a monster, Lindsay. There’s a logical explanation for your grandfather’s disappearance. We just haven’t found it yet.”
    â€œBut we will?”
    â€œI try not to make promises I can’t keep.”
    She caught her breath, an audible gasp. “Did you see that?”
    â€œYes,” he said.
    The pinpoint of light had come again, then gone.
    â€œWhat was it?” she said.
    â€œIf I don’t miss my guess, someone on that island has struck a couple of matches. Maybe to smoke a cigarette or light a pipe.”
    â€œWe’re not alone?”
    â€œWe’re not alone.”
    â€œWho are they?”
    â€œBoundary Waters enthusiasts maybe.”
    â€œWhy didn’t we see them earlier?”
    â€œIt was hard to see much of anything in that mist today.”
    â€œWhat time is it?”
    Cork pushed the stem on his wristwatch, and the face lit up. “Two-thirty-eight.”
    â€œWho’d be up at two-thirty-eight in the morning?”
    â€œSomeone seeing a man about a horse, maybe. Or someone just craving a smoke. We’ll ask them.”
    â€œTonight?”
    â€œTomorrow’s soon enough.”
    â€œI’m going back to my tent,” she said. “You coming?”
    â€œIn a minute.”
    He studied the black outline of the island. There was an official BWCAW campsite on the lakeshore, but the two bright pinpricks had come from atop the ridge. He’d climbed that rock wall during the search for John Harris. It was tough even in good light and in good weather. What would anyone be doing atop the rocky ridge in the dead of that kind of night?
    As he stood there wondering, clouds once again gobbled the moon. The island vanished from sight and the lake became a black emptiness. Cork felt his way back to his tent. Inside, he pulled off his boots, slipped off his pants and sweater, rolled them again into a pillow, and zipped himself into his bag.
    He wondered if Lindsay Harris had gone back to sleep. Probably not, he thought. Probably her brain was pinballing, bouncing among a lot of unanswered questions. He knew there would be no answers that night, so he closed his eyes and let himself sink into oblivion.
    * * *
    â€œI’d kill for a cup of coffee.” Lindsay came from her tent, breathing clouds of gray vapor. She looked like hell, but Cork knew that