“Why do you say that Mikhail killed your wife? Do you have proof of this?”
“Your husband and a man named Ray Kroll were instructed to kill her. They made it look like a hit-and-run, and that’s what we thought it was. But now I know the truth. Mikhail ordered her death, and they carried it out. Reece is dead. Kroll is dead. And Mikhail . . . well, he’s . . . I’m not going to let him make it to Canada.”
Ana looked pale in the soft glow of the dashboard lights. She had sunk back into her seat, and all that fight she had a minute ago had drained away. I expected her to ask me questions, maybe demand proof of what I said, but she didn’t. Ana turned her face to the window and didn’t make a sound.
I pulled into Gunflint Lodge, a small complex of cabins and trails that funneled down the side of a hill to the main lodge at the edge of a lake. The soft light of morning had begun to bleed through the trees and spill out onto the frozen expanse that separated Minnesota from Canada. I parked the Durango and walked to the front door of the lodge, where a dim, yellow light glowed its welcome. Ana waited until I had gone in before she followed.
The door opened into a vestibule not much bigger than three paces in each direction. I crossed the vestibule and tried the next door. Locked. I looked around for a phone or buzzer to call someone to come and let us in. Then I noticed a sign on the inside door that read “Open at 7 A.M.” I peered through the glass for any sign of life. Nothing.
“Fuck,” I muttered. A topographical map of Superior National Forest hung on the wall, and in the dim light, I found the tiny X that designated the lodge. I backtracked to the trail where Mikhail’s cabin lay and studied the terrain and distances to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area, to the Canadian border and beyond, doing my best to commit it to memory.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet, retrieving all of my cash. “Take this.” I shoved the money into Ana’s hands.
“No. I don’t—”
“I don’t have time to argue,” I said. “You can stay here. They open at seven. It’s heated here in the vestibule. When they let you in, get a room. I’ll come back for you when I’m . . . just stay here.”
I started to leave, but she grabbed my arm and pulled me back.
“Wait,” she said. “I have to tell you something.”
“I have to go. He’s getting away.”
“Please, listen.”
“What?” I snapped.
Her eyes looked up at me, beseeching me to listen to her. “I know about your wife’s death. I know what happened to her. I did not know she was your wife—I promise—not until just now. I know what they did to your wife. I need to tell you. You must know this before you go.”
Ana eased me onto the pine bench by the wall, and there she proceeded to tell me the details of Jenni’s death.
CHAPTER 39
The trail leading to Mikhail’s cabin still held the faint impression of tire tracks under the snow. I drove to the turnoff with my headlights extinguished. The sun was close enough to the horizon to give relief from the darkness, but the snow fell in a thick, cottony wave that made it seem like I was driving through a curtain.
I parked at the entrance to the trail and slipped into my snow pants, removing my gun from its holster and putting it into my coat pocket so I could zip the pants shut. My boots and coat were high-end, but old, and I seemed to recall that one of my boots had a hole in it. Walmart-quality gloves and stocking cap finished my ensemble.
As I started down the hill, the snow thickened into a flurry so heavy that I could barely see twenty yards, but I could see the dip of the tire tracks at my feet well enough to follow them. Soon the tracks turned and disappeared into the forest. Through the trees I could make out the faint outline of a structure—and lights. He was there.
I moved into the tree line, crouching low to creep beneath the branches. The snow rose above my knees, and each step required effort to keep from tipping over. Ahead was the trace outline of the cabin, the pallid gold of a rough-hewn pine exterior filtered through the wall of snow. I removed the glove from my right hand and drew my gun out of my coat pocket.
I could hear a motor running. The sound seemed to be coming from the far side of the cabin. I entered a clearing and sidestepped my way along the trees until I came to a tool shed at the edge of the property. The door was open, so I peeked inside, my gun leading the way. It was empty except for the clutter of random items you’d expect in such a shack: life jackets, canoe paddles, rope, an ice auger, and gardening tools.
I moved downslope and rounded the back side of the cabin. This was not a cabin like my little hovel in the woods north of Grand Rapids. Through the snow, I could see a deck jutting out beneath an A-frame wall of glass, which rose up a good twenty feet, the sparkle of electric light making the whole fa?ade glow in the burgeoning dawn. On any other day, this might have been the perfect setting for a Christmas card.
I followed the sound of the running engine along the back of the cabin, leveling my gun in that direction. I hadn’t had my glove off for all that long, but already I could feel the cold filling the spaces in my knuckles.
Like an iceberg emerging from a fogbank, the source of the engine noise came into view. A snowmobile. I took a few more steps, and could see that it stood idling, unmanned. Someone had started it to let it warm up for a trip. A helmet lay on the seat, and the light dusting of snow on top of the helmet meant that Mikhail had laid it there within the past few minutes.
Suddenly, I sensed movement in my periphery. Before I could turn to look, a wedge of pine firewood smashed into the back of my wrist. Pain exploded in my arm, shooting needles of fire and ice up my neck, and sending my gun sailing, disappearing into a haze of white.
I turned to see a second log heading for my face. I lurched backward to dodge it, my legs getting twisted in the snow, and I fell back. Mikhail stood at the back of the house, next to a stack of firewood, where he picked up a third log and flung it at me. This one I was ready for, and I knocked it down just before it hit my chest. He picked up a fourth and chucked it blindly in my general direction as he began a mad dash for the snowmobile.
I got to my feet, grabbed the log that I’d knocked down, and heaved it at the snowmobile. Mikhail had climbed onto the seat and had his helmet in his hands. When my log hit him square in the back, the helmet went tumbling, and Mikhail fell forward. I charged toward him, closing to within ten feet before he popped the sled into gear and screamed away.