Heaven's Keep (14 page)

“Who asked?”

“Ellyn Grant. You driving ’em, Jon?”

“Yep.”

“Then come along.”

No Voice returned to his vehicle and waited while Cork and the others got into Rude’s pickup. As soon as Rude kicked the engine over, No Voice headed off and Rude followed.

“Ellyn Grant,” Rude said. “Her eyes and ears are everywhere on the rez.”

“She’s got clout?”

“Big mojo. Smart woman, ambitious, educated, probably knows more about the Northern Arapaho and their history than anybody alive. Went to Stanford on a full scholarship, graduated magna cum laude. Any idea what an achievement that is for an Arapaho? Hell, she could’ve done just about anything she wanted, gone anywhere. What did she do? Returned home, married Edgar Little Bear, and launched herself on a one-woman crusade to get this reservation into the twenty-first century.”

Cork eyed the sad-looking town around him. “Slow going,” he noted.

“Things haven’t gone as well for the Blue Sky Casino as everyone hoped. Hot Springs is too far off the beaten path. Still, the rez has a new business center. That road we came in on is slated to be completely redone this spring. Every enrolled member of the Owl Creek Arapaho gets a regular allotment check from the casino profits. It’s not much at this point, but it’s something. And, believe me, everybody here can always use a little something.”

“And the Blue Sky Casino was Ellyn Grant’s doing?” Cork asked.

Rude nodded. “Her idea beginning to end.”

They parked in the lot of the Reservation Business Center, next to No Voice’s Blazer, and followed him inside. Artwork filled the center’s lobby: oils and watercolors, wood carvings, moccasins and purses and bags with beautiful and intricate beadwork, hand drums, and pottery. On a tripod sat a large sign that read “Absaroka Gallery. Fine Work by Arapaho Artists. One mile east on Highway 57.”

“Nice work,” Cork said.

“Lots of talent on the rez,” No Voice replied with pride.

They passed a bulletin board crowded with notices and flyers: an announcement for a banquet to honor the high school football team, the Eagles; a lot of want ads; a big poster giving the warning signs for a meth lab. They approached a door with a small white plaque mounted on the wall beside it, identifying the office of Owl Creek Reservation Enterprises. No Voice swung the door open and stood aside for the others to enter.

“Here they are, Ellyn.”

It was a large room with filing cabinets, a computer workstation, and a long table with half a dozen empty chairs around it. Grant sat at a desk of polished wood that was positioned in front of a window with a view of the empty powwow grounds not far away. Open before her lay a folder of documents with pages full of numbers. She was wearing glasses and held a yellow pencil. She smiled and said, “Thank you, Andy.”

No Voice pulled the door shut and remained outside. Grant closed the folder, put the pencil down, stood up, and went to the long table. “Please,” she said, “have a seat.”

Occupying the center of the table was an architect’s model, a miniature construct of a complex of connected buildings surrounded by miniature mountains with ski runs. The model was labeled: “The Gateway Grand Casino, a joint project of the Owl Creek Arapaho and Realm-McCrae Development.”

“We didn’t really have a chance to talk last night,” she said. “And the Antelope Grill isn’t the kind of place to have the kind of discussion I’d like to have.”

“And what kind of discussion is that?” Cork said.

“People we love are missing. My husband. Your wife.” She offered Stephen a look of deep sympathy. “Your mother. I’ve barely slept since I got word. And I’ve been all over Dewey Quinn trying to get him to expand the area of the search they’re making.”

“To include Baby’s Cradle?” Cork asked.

“Exactly. With all due respect to Sheriff Kosmo, he’s a nice guy but he’d need help finding his way out of a closet.”

“It’s my understanding that Commander Nickleson in Cody is in charge of the search.”

“Dewey Quinn has lots of influence with Nickleson, and Quinn takes his orders from Jim Kosmo. If Kosmo says forget about Baby’s Cradle, Quinn won’t push it.” She sat back, and for a moment her eyes drifted out the window toward the winter landscape of Red Hawk. When she looked at Cork again, she appeared deeply troubled. “You talked with Will Pope. What do you think?”

“I don’t know Will Pope.”

“I liked him,” Stephen jumped in.

“I’m glad,” Grant said. “I like old Will, too. A lot of people are eager to write him off because of his drinking, but this vision of his, well, it seems to me to have a lot of merit.”

“Put yourself in the place of Sheriff Kosmo or Dewey Quinn,” Cork said. “They’re working with limited resources and in a desperate time frame. They’re having to make decisions that seem to them the most judicious at the moment.”

“Spoken like a member of the cop fraternity,” Grant said. “But I understand you’re part Ojibwe. Listen to that part of yourself.”

“Wouldn’t matter. I’m not in charge of the search and rescue operation.”

“If Kosmo gets enough pressure from those of us with a sincere stake in the outcome, maybe he’ll swing some of the search planes our way.”

“Our way?”

“I need your help. Have you seen the most recent weather forecast?”

“No.”

“Another storm system is heading this way. In a couple of days,
it’ll hit the Rockies and we’ll get more snow in the high country. Anything not buried now will most surely be buried then.”

All along, Cork had known they were working against impossibilities—the cold, the harsh terrain, the size of the search area, its emptiness. Yet he’d struggled to hold to a hope, however remote, that Jo and the others had survived the fall from the sky and that it was only a matter of finding them. Now even this fragile hope was about to be shattered. He tried not to show his devastation, tried not to let Stephen see.

“We have two days, Cork,” Grant said.

“We’re going to Baby’s Cradle tomorrow,” Stephen said. He still sounded buoyed by hope.

“That’s good,” Grant said. “But wouldn’t it be better if other planes joined you? A few eyes are fine, but many eyes are best.”

“Dad, we could talk to Deputy Quinn?”

“Talk to Kosmo,” Grant said.

“All right,” Cork agreed.

“And, Jon, why don’t you give Lame Nightwind a call. He’s been flying the Baby’s Cradle area. He can tell you what he has and hasn’t covered. Maybe you two can coordinate.” She stood up, and the others did, too.

“What is this?” Cork asked, nodding toward the architect’s model on the table.

“Our next venture,” Grant said. “The Gateway Grand Casino. We’re building it near the entrance to Yellowstone. When it’s completed, it will be the largest casino complex between Atlantic City and Las Vegas.”

“Looks like it’ll offer a lot more than just gambling.”

“World-class ski slopes, hundreds of miles of snowmobile and hiking trails, and everything else the Rockies and Yellowstone have to offer.”

“The Blue Sky Casino must be doing better than it appears.”

“It’s doing well enough,” she said and headed for the door. No Voice was still waiting in the hall. “We’re finished here, Andy. Thanks for the help.” She shook Cork’s hand and then turned to his son. “It was a pleasure talking with you, Stephen.”

“I didn’t say much.”

“We Arapaho have a saying: When there is true hospitality, not many words are needed.”

He smiled. “Thanks.”

Outside the sun was dropping behind the mountains. The light was fading fast. The dark blue shadow of the Absarokas had already swallowed the foothills, and Red Hawk was next. No Voice got into his Blazer and drove away. The town felt more deserted than ever. Stephen and Rude headed directly to the truck, but Cork hesitated for a minute in the parking lot.

The light of the setting sun fell against the little church of St. Alban on the opposite side of the street. The brass cross mounted above the entrance blazed for a minute as if on fire. As Cork stood watching, a small figure stepped from the shadow of the recessed doorway and looked in his direction. Cork saw clearly that it was a kid, probably no older than Stephen. He was Indian, Arapaho no doubt. He wore a jean jacket with some kind of insignia patch sewn on the shoulder. The kid stared, as if trying to burrow into Cork. Then he stepped back into the shadow of the doorway. It was only a few seconds, but there was something about the solitary figure under the blazing cross that struck Cork in a profound and unnerving way.

“Dad!” Stephen called. “Come on!”

Cork walked to Rude’s pickup, performing without thought a procedure he’d trained himself to follow during his years as a cop: In his brain, he filed away the physical details of the kid where they would remain until he needed to retrieve them. If he ever did.

I
t was hard dark when they reached the airstrip outside Hot Springs.

Rude said, “Why don’t you come home with me and have a home-cooked meal? Diane makes a mean lasagna. And she loves company. You can meet my little girl, Anna. Apple of my eye.”

“Thanks,” Cork said. “But I want to track down Jim Kosmo.”

“That won’t be hard. He’s fond of blackjack.”

“So we’ll find him at the casino?”

“Most likely.”

“Thanks, Jon.”

“I’ll see you guys here tomorrow morning. Let’s say seven.”

“It’s a deal.”

They shook hands. Cork and Stephen climbed into their rented Wrangler and headed toward town. They went directly to the Blue Sky Casino, and, just as Rude had predicted, they found Sheriff Kosmo at a twenty-dollar-limit blackjack table with three small stacks of chips in front of him and no other players besides himself and the dealer. Kosmo was intent on his cards. He signaled for a hit, received the seven of hearts, and stood. The dealer showed a seven of clubs. He flipped his hole card, an eight of diamonds, and dealt himself a four. The six and five that the sheriff had in the hole gave him only eighteen. The dealer swept up the two blue chips Kosmo had placed as a bet.

“Sheriff,” Cork said before the next hand was dealt.

Kosmo looked at him. “It’s O’Connor, right?”

“That’s right. I’d like to talk to you.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Kosmo said to the dealer, “Roy, hold my place. I’ll be right back.”

“Sure thing, Jim.”

They stepped away from the table and stood at the end of a line of slots. The casino wasn’t busy, but you couldn’t tell that from the noise the machines kept up.

“Okay, you’ve got me,” Kosmo said. “Talk.”

“Baby’s Cradle,” Cork said.

Kosmo’s face was a broad stretch of flesh as unwelcoming as the Wyoming desert. “Dewey told me you were heading out to see Will Pope.”

“Is there any way you can divert some of the search effort to that area?”

“Dewey’s in charge of the operation. He makes the decisions.”

“You’re the sheriff.”

“You were a county sheriff back in Minnesota, right? You know how it works. You put your best person in charge and then you stay out of their way. Have you talked to Dewey?”

“Not yet.”

“He’s working with the FAA, CAP, and our own S and R. He knows better than anyone what’s reasonable. Talk to him. He says it’s okay, it’ll happen. Is that all?” He eyed the blackjack table, where the dealer stood looking bored.

“Any idea where I can find Dewey this time of night?”

“Last I spoke with him, he was still at the department.”

“Come on, Stephen. The sheriff has more important things to do.” Cork put his arm around his son, and they turned to leave.

“Look, O’Connor, if there’s something you think we’re not doing, I’d sure as hell like to know what that is.”

“Forget it.” Cork kept walking.

In the Wrangler on the way back to town, Stephen said, “Ms. Grant told us he was in charge. He says it’s Deputy Quinn. What’s going on, Dad?”

“I don’t know, Stephen. Let’s find Dewey and ask him. You hungry?”

“Yeah.”

“After we talk to Dewey, we’ll grab a burger somewhere, okay?”

Quinn was no longer at the sheriff’s department. The deputy on the contact desk told them he’d left half an hour earlier. He didn’t know where he’d gone. And no, he couldn’t give them his phone number.

They grabbed cheeseburgers and shakes at a place called the Dairy Barn, then drove back to their hotel to eat. As they passed through the lobby, the woman at the front desk smiled at them, wished them a good evening, and picked up the phone. Two minutes after they’d stepped into their room, someone knocked at their door. Cork opened up to find the television reporter they’d seen the day before outside the sheriff’s office.

“Mr. O’Connor, my name is Felicia Gray. I’m a reporter from Casper. Could I talk to you for a moment?”

“It’s been a long day, Ms. Gray. We’re tired and we’re just about to eat.”

“I understand you spoke with Will Pope today. What do you think?”

“I think the sheriff’s people are doing everything they can to find that missing plane.”

“Do you think there’s anything to Mr. Pope’s vision, or to Ellyn Grant’s assertion that the vision indicates the plane went down in the Baby’s Cradle area?”

“Pope didn’t say that he thought his vision necessarily meant Baby’s Cradle.”

“If not Baby’s Cradle, then where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Look, I talked with Will Pope myself. I was the one who broke the story. And I’ve got to tell you, it seems pretty clear to me that he’s talking about Baby’s Cradle. And that blanket over the eagle? That’s got to be a blanket of snow, don’t you think?”

“Even credible visions shouldn’t be taken at face value, Ms. Gray.”

“Meaning what?”

“They often require interpretation. Or that’s my understanding.”

“You’re Native American, is that correct?”

“I have some Ojibwe blood in me.”

“Then you’d know about visions and their interpretation.”

“You want an interpretation, talk to Will Pope. Good night.” He started to close the door, but she put out a hand to hold it open.

“Mr. O’Connor, I’m truly sorry for your situation. And I’m sorry if I seem aggressive. I’m just trying to put the story together. If you’d like to talk to me, I’m staying here. Room 217. I’m available anytime. Call my room or call me on my cell.”