Northwest Angle by William Kent Krueger

debris they were slogging their own way through.
    Stephen shrugged. “Desperate, maybe.”
    Desperation, Rose thought. That was something they all knew about. She listened to the sound of the boat growing distant. It was good to know that they were not alone on the lake. She said a little prayer for whomever it was so desperate that they risked speeding across treacherous water, prayed for their safety.
    Then she prayed once again for Cork and Jenny.

TWELVE
     
    J enny said, “Where are you going?”
    The moon had been up for an hour, and the island was like a charcoal etching, black shapes against white light.
    “Back to the cabin,” Cork replied.
    “Jesus, what for, Dad?”
    Cork stood bent at the edge of the little shelter, peering out at the blasted landscape. In the moonlight, it seemed to him to be an island made of bone. He spoke in a whisper in order not to disturb the baby.
    “If I’m going to build a raft to get us off this island, I’ll need some things I don’t have now.”
    “Like what?”
    “Rope, for starters. I saw a clothesline at the cabin.” He stepped outside into the clear night and brought himself upright.
    Jenny moved away from the where the baby lay on the blanket, left the shelter, and stood beside her father. “Isn’t there something else we could use? Tear strips from our clothing or something.”
    “Rope’s better,” he said.
    “What else?”
    He was looking at the lake now, at the tall islands around him, black as char. The powerboat had gone away, far enough that the sound of the engines had faded to nothing. Cork hopedthat somewhere in the hard dark he might see a light—a campfire or lantern or flashlight—something that would indicate they weren’t completely alone, though he knew in his heart that was exactly what they were.
    “What do you mean ‘what else’?” he said.
    “You said ‘for starters.’ ”
    “Oh. Maybe a flashlight.”
    “Or maybe a gun,” Jenny said, nailing his real thought. “You told me you’d never touch a gun again.”
    He faced her. In daylight, her hair was so blond it was nearly white. When she was a little girl, there were times that her windblown hair had reminded him of the silky fibers of milkweed. Her mother’s hair had been the same color and texture. Jenny was like her mother in many ways, Cork thought. Lovely, smart, perceptive. But her mother was dead, and Jenny was very much alive, and Cork meant to keep her that way, whatever it took.
    “I told you I’d never fire a gun again at a human being,” he said.
    “When you were sheriff, you told me, and I quote, ‘Never aim a firearm at someone without being fully prepared to use it.’ End quote.”
    “Journalists,” he said. Then he said, “Yes, I’d prefer to be in possession of a firearm at this moment.”
    “I’d prefer that, too,” she said. She looked deeply and sadly into her father’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
    “Not your fault,” he replied. “I’ll be back, and then we’ll throw something together to float ourselves off this island.”
    She unscrewed the cap on the Ball jar, took a handful of matches, and gave them to him. “There are more candles in the cabin, in a cigar box,” she told him. She also handed him the knife. “You’ll need this to cut the clothesline.”
    He kissed the top of her head, threw a glance at the child, and left. He began to make his way to the other side of the outcropping, where he intended to follow the shoreline until he reached the cove near the cabin.
    The moon had risen to a point roughly forty-five degrees above the horizon, so bright that he could see much of the detail, if not the color, of those island features within a few dozen yards of his position. Whenever he glanced back toward the outcropping to gauge his progress, he found his shadow floating behind him on the water, a familiar companion in all that was so strange.
    He did something dangerous as he slogged along. He thought. Not about his current