Heaven's keep

THIRTEEN

Day Five, Missing 103 Hours

Outside Will Pope’s trailer, Cork paused and looked around. There was no sign of life in Red Hawk. He could hear a distant motor that might have been a generator of some kind, but the streets were deserted. Late Sunday afternoon. Maybe everyone was watching the Broncos beat the crap out of Oakland.

“I’m not sure what that accomplished,” he said.

“He’s not like Henry Meloux,” Stephen said, “but I like him.”

Rude pulled his gloves on. “He was sober. That’s real unusual for Will. Folks here on the rez treat him with respect because he’s an elder, but most don’t give any weight to his visions. I thought maybe if you saw him in his usual state you might understand why Dewey Quinn is skeptical.”

“I still want to fly over Baby’s Cradle,” Stephen said.

Rude shrugged. “Okay by me. Cork?”

“Why not?”

“All right then. I’ll get it cleared with Dewey for tomorrow.” A tan Blazer passed the church, turned onto St. Alban Lane, and came toward them. There were emergency lights across the top, and the lettering on the door indicated that it belonged to the Bureau of Indian Affairs police. The Blazer parked in front of Pope’s place, and an officer got out. He wore a leather jacket over his blue uniform. He was a stocky man with a broad face, dark eyes, close-cropped black hair, and teeth white as baking soda. He squinted in the sunlight, eyeing Rude, then Cork, then Stephen.

“Jon,” he said, “you haven’t been bothering my uncle, have you?”

“We just wanted to talk to him about that vision of his, Andy.”

“Too many people been bothering him about that vision. Wearin’ him out.” He leveled his dark-eyed gaze on Cork. “Your name O’Connor?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Andrew No Voice, chief of the Owl Creek Reservation police. I’ve been asked to escort you to the tribal offices.”

“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.