‘I know.’ I reached a hand over the seat. ‘I’m going to get you there. I promise.’
He took several deep inhales, using the meditation breathing, and then wrapped my hand in both of his, squeezing down to the bones.
The next few days passed in a blur of emails and phone calls crammed between near-constant sessions with Lucas and updates to Dr Mehta. I checked the ice in websites, making sure none of the Boundary Waters lakes were freezing over yet, and also monitored news sites and social media. Other than a bear sighting near Twin Harbors and photos of the last of the fall colors, it was quiet up north. I wished I could say the same for Duluth. Footage of Lucas at Twin Ponds had swept through the media, causing backlash at the protesters and throwing Congdon’s practices even further into the spotlight. Dr Mehta had given a news conference explaining patient reintegration privileges and appealing to the public for their support.
With Lucas in attendance I held the first meeting for the search party, who were surprisingly easy to recruit. Everyone wanted to be part of the rescue effort, winter be damned. Two orderlies volunteered within ten minutes of when I sent the email and Dr Mehta offered up one of the associate psychiatrists as the medical resource on the expedition. A US Forest Service ranger named Micah was going to be our official guide and within two minutes of meeting him – and without asking – I learned that he’d grown up in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, he’d needed to find some direction after his discharge from the military, and he had no, absolutely no, problem with crazy people. Officer Miller, who was sitting in on the meeting, stifled a laugh as I shook the ranger’s hand.
I started by displaying the same picture showcased on all the news outlets and taped up on my fridge, the Blackthorns sitting on a dock together before they’d disappeared. After repeating the story everyone in the room knew, I told them the part they didn’t know – that the Blackthorns had lived happily off the grid for ten years until a few months ago, when Josiah got sick.
‘It’s been twenty-five days since Lucas last saw his father and time is running out. Our mission is to rescue him before the ice
sets in.’
I went over the details of the trip. Due to Lucas’s ‘inability’ to pinpoint Josiah’s location on a map, we’d backtrack his journey starting from the outfitter’s store. Lucas would lead us to his father, our doctor could administer any emergency medical treatment, and Micah the forest ranger would be able to radio in for an airlift to transport Josiah to the hospital.
‘What if he’s already dead?’ one of the orderlies asked.
That question sparked a debate about whether a helicopter would be called, under increasingly extreme conditions, merely to transport a body and who was going to pay for all these extraordinary measures. The doctor suggested towing an empty canoe for the remains, but – after accidentally catching Lucas’s murderous look – quickly amended that it could be used to haul out any extra stuff from their campsite, too.
‘After all,’ he appealed to everyone else, careful to avoid Lucas’s corner of the table, ‘that’s the motto in the Boundary Waters, right?’
Lucas grunted, drawing the table’s attention. ‘We don’t need lessons on how to disappear.’
I directed the conversation quickly back to the list of supplies, cautions about entering the Boundary Waters in November (cue smug grins from the ranger), and general preparations for monitoring Lucas, who needed to be supervised at all times by Congdon staff. He would sleep in a tent with the orderlies, paddle with me, and wear an ankle bracelet in the event he got separated from the group. As long as Dr Mehta gave the approval, our target departure date was November 1, three days away.
Sometimes when things moved forward, they moved backward, too. It was a strange sensation, a déjà vu carnival ride. I’d spent years trying to forget Ely, Minnesota, and now it had clawed its way back into every corner of my life. Past and future, a man killed, a man who might be saved; everything converged in Ely. There was no hiding from it anymore, so on my last day off before the search party was scheduled to leave, I left Dad a note and drove north.
If Duluth was considered small by most urban standards, Ely was hardly more than a dot on the map. It had been an iron town until the mines gave out, drawing all the miners to the taconite under the towns to the south. Now it was a collection of small businesses, a hub for the forest service, and of course, a gateway to the Boundary Waters. Soon after my discharge from Congdon I’d read that Ely was named The Coolest Small Town in America, referring to possibly more than the temperature.
Driving through the small grid of streets I saw a mix of old and new – Babe’s Bait and Tackle, Steger Mukluks, and the Northland Market sitting adjacent to places with vague names like Insula and very specific ones like Gator’s Grilled Cheese Emporium. I drove past Pillow Rock, the one place we always stopped when Mom and I came to town, our tradition, like some people went to the Old-Fashioned Candy store. Bigger than a car, the ancient greenstone could be found nowhere else in the world, but what I remembered most was that she never let me climb on it, never let me lay my head on those inviting, almost fluffy looking puffs of minerals.
In the center of town, I found a large camping store in a clapboard building whose foundation was lined with flowers. Wilting plants, crosses, and wreaths with ribbons that whipped in the wind crowded next to black-and-white pictures of a lined, laughing woman’s face. A hand-painted sign in the center of the memorial had Monica Anderson’s name with her dates of birth and death. Across the street, a tax office’s window was crowded with signs. One of them said, Friends of the Boundary Waters. Another, in large red letters, read, Remember Monica. Keep Blackthorn in jail. I parked outside the camping store and took a deep breath.
Inside there was enough gear to outfit the entire Forest Service. I browsed the all-terrain boots, the tent covers, and varieties of powdered eggs, picking up items here and there and starting a pile on the abandoned counter. I was on my fourth trip back up to the register when a man appeared on the stairs at the back. Moving stiffly, he unfolded a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket and scanned my selections with flat eyes.
‘Planning a winter trip?’
‘Yeah.’ I set a box of fire starters on top. ‘Going to find Josiah Blackthorn.’
His head snapped up. I gave him a bland smile.
‘I don’t know anything.’
‘I didn’t say you did, Robert. I’m just here to buy some gear.’
His throat worked and he seemed to be weighing the benefit of a thousand-dollar sale against the urge to throw me out of his store. Eventually he stepped closer and picked up a pair of top-of-the-line boots. ‘These are men’s. This size won’t fit you.’
‘They’re not for me.’
He braced both hands on the counter then, and stared at the stack of clothing, gear, and provisions. He might have been anywhere from fifty to seventy, with stone gray hair standing up in odd places, and a series of faint red lines zigzagging through one side of his forehead and temple, like the edges of puzzle pieces if the puzzle had been bleeding. A huge silhouette of a moose against the sunset hung behind the counter, framed in driftwood. There were other touches through the store – painted paddles mounted near the ceiling, product explanation cards written in an elegant flourish – the undeniable traces of a woman who’d left her mark, even if she hadn’t planned on leaving.
‘Take your business elsewhere.’ He didn’t look at me.
I moved to the door but stopped before opening it, glancing through the window from one end of the street to the other. ‘Why didn’t he?’