Heaven's keep

TWENTY-SEVEN

They stood in the airport parking lot, eyeing the western horizon. A thick mass of poisonous-looking green cloud had completely swallowed the sun. A fierce wind had risen, and Cork could feel the energy of a storm about to descend.

“That sky looks pretty sick,” he said. “Could be hail.”

Parmer put his hand on the rented Navigator. “It would be a shame to have this beauty assaulted.”

“Let’s pull into Bodine’s hangar and see what develops.”

At the security gate, they keyed in the code again and headed for Bodine’s hangar. After he’d unlocked them, Cork retracted the big doors and Parmer drove the Navigator inside. They stood at the entrance, looking out at the airstrip, which lay empty under the threatening sky. The wind howled at the hangar, and the roof rattled as if it were about to be peeled away. Dust and grit peppered the walls with a sound like a rain of BBs.

The plane that Gage Williams had identified was a Cessna 400, Wyoming registration, owned by a company named Geotech West, which listed an address in Casper.

“Geotech West,” Cork said, as much to himself as to Parmer. “Who the hell is Geotech West?”

“Let’s find out,” Parmer said.

He went to the Navigator and took something from the briefcase in the backseat. When he returned, Cork saw that he was holding a BlackBerry.

“The world at my fingertips,” Parmer said. “Let’s see what the world has to say about Geotech West.”

At that same moment, a deafening roar commenced around them. Outside, hail the diameter of nickels began to hit the pavement and bounce like spit on a griddle. The hammering on the hangar drowned out any hope of conversation. Lightning slashed across the sky above the airfield, and the whole scene became an ice-white tableau. In almost the same instant, an explosion of thunder made the concrete under Cork’s feet quiver. Within a few minutes, hail completely covered the ground. Within five minutes, the hailstorm ended, as suddenly as it had begun. Rain followed, falling in sheets blown nearly horizontal by the wind.

Cork said, “Will that thing still work in this storm?”

“We’ll see,” Parmer said.

“While you do that, I’m going to have another look around.”

As he had earlier, Cork prowled the interior perimeter of the hangar, looking more carefully this time in every chest and crate and cabinet and barrel. A lot of what he saw he couldn’t identify, tools and technical plane parts mostly. Near Bodine’s corner office, he lifted the lid on a metal barrel and found an enormous supply of cloth rags. He pulled out handfuls and dropped them on the floor, thinking there might be something hidden deep in the barrel, but he reached bottom without hitting the jackpot. He began picking up the rags and stuffing them back in, then he stopped. In his hand was a wad of rags that weren’t at all clean.

“Hey, Cork,” Parmer called. “You might want to take a look at this.”

“And you might want to take a look at this,” Cork called back.

They met in the middle of the hangar, Cork with the soiled rags in his hands and Parmer, in a way, with the world in his.

“Is that what I think it is?” Parmer asked, staring at the wadded rags.

“I’m pretty sure it’s not strawberry jam.”

“Christ, there’s a lot of blood. Where’d you find those?”

“Stuffed in a barrel.”

“What do you think?”

“It’s possible, I suppose, that Bodine cut himself.”

“Severed an artery is more like it.”

“It could be that these were used to clean up after he was killed. Or after Stilwell was killed. Maybe to wipe the hangar floor.” Cork nodded toward the BlackBerry cradled in Parmer’s palm. “What did you find?”

Parmer held the tiny screen toward Cork so that he could see the Internet display. “Geotech West advertises itself as a mineral exploration outfit.” Parmer used his stylus to access another screen. “Here it says it’s a subsidiary of Longmont Venture Partners. If we bring up Longmont”-and he did-“you can see that it’s a company with a number of holdings, all dealing with mining and mineral technology. Now”-and he manipulated the screen again-“Longmont is a division of Fortrell, Inc., which has diversified interests. It owns a number of other companies. Wireless Technologies, Prism Optical, Realm-McCrae Development, Sanderson Aggregate, Alloy and-”

“Wait,” Cork said. “Go back. Did you say Realm-McCrae Development?”

“Yes.”

“Realm-McCrae. I know that name.” Cork thought a moment but couldn’t get a solid hold on the slippery memory. “Damn, I’m sure I know that name.”

“Let’s look a little deeper,” Parmer said, working the BlackBerry. “Current Realm-McCrae projects include a housing subdivision in… wait a minute. I’ll bet this is it. Says here they’re working with the Arapahos in Wyoming to build a big resort casino.”

“That’s it! There’s our connection, Hugh.”

“Why would these people want Sandy Bodine dead?”

“Maybe it wasn’t Bodine who was the target.”

“Who then?”

“I don’t know.”

Parmer’s stomach let out a long, mean growl. “Look, Cork, I hate to get basic on you, but we haven’t eaten all day. I could use some food. Could we discuss this over a good steak and some beer?”

“I don’t see why not. I think we’re finished here for the moment.”

“What are you going to do with those bloody rags?”

“Hold on to them. I don’t know that they prove anything in and of themselves, but I’m not going to leave them here.”

“Is that tampering with evidence?”

“You want to risk them being gone when we come back?” Cork said. He found a paper bag and put the rags inside. He set the bag on the backseat of Parmer’s Navigator. Parmer pulled out of the hangar and into the rain. Cork closed and locked the hangar door and dashed to the SUV.

They ended up at the restaurant of a local country club, a nice place called Turtleback. They were given a table next to a long row of windows that overlooked the golf course. Far beyond that, rising on the other side of Rice Lake, lay the Blue Hills.

“Why do they call them the Blue Hills?” Parmer asked their waitress, a friendly woman who was probably someone’s grandmother.

“There’s often a blue haze that hangs over them,” the woman said.

“What causes the haze?”

“Got me.” She smiled.

Cork ordered a Leinenkugel’s Creamy Dark.

“Good beer?” Parmer asked.

“I’m partial to it. It’s a local brew.”

“I’ll have one, too,” Parmer said.

While they waited for their drinks to arrive, Cork stared out the window, which was streaked with rain. The golf course was empty, and the Blue Hills were a vague suggestion behind the blur of the downpour.

“So what are you thinking?” Parmer asked.

“I’ve been going over in my mind the passenger list for Bodine’s charter.”

“Who were they?”

“George LeDuc, tribal chair of the Iron Lake Ojibwe. Bob Tall Grass, chair of the RBC for the Northern Cheyenne-”

“RBC?”

“Reservation Business Committee. An organization responsible for bringing business to the rez and overseeing the operations. Many reservations have something like it. Scott No Day, who was also on the plane, was responsible for that for the Eastern Shoshone.”

“Okay, who else?”

“Edgar Little Bear, tribal chairman for the Owl Creek Arapaho. Oliver Washington, who was a Northern Cheyenne and also an attorney. And, of course, Jo and the pilot.”

“Where were they going?”

“Seattle. To the annual conference of the National Congress of American Indians.”

“Was there a reason they were traveling together?”

“They were all part of a committee that was supposed to deliver a report, something about the feasibility of an intertribal agency that would regulate Indian gaming. They met in Casper to go over the presentation, which Jo had prepared for them. Gaming is a huge issue in the Indian community. For a lot of reservations, it’s the promise of a cold drink of water at the end of a long economic drought. But it doesn’t always pan out that way. And among Indians, as among whites, the issue of the morality of gambling is a hot one. There are strong voices on both sides.”

“Economic relief versus spiritual corruption?”

“Not just spiritual. The real corruption that can come with a casino is well known and well documented. I think that was one of the concerns the committee was going to address.”

“Any idea what the report said?”

“I got the feeling from Jo that it wasn’t anything particularly controversial.”

“Still, is it possible someone didn’t want the report delivered?”

“I suppose. But, hell, it was just a report and probably some recommendations. The Indian community moves pretty slowly on everything. Seems unlikely the presentation was something you’d kill a whole plane full of people over.”

Their waitress delivered their beers. There were two additional bottles of Leinenkugel’s Dark on her tray.

“I appreciate that you think of me as a two-fisted drinker,” Cork said, “but at the moment, one beer’ll do me fine.”

The waitress laughed. “These are for those gentlemen over there.” She indicated two men at another table.

“I admire their taste,” Cork said.

She bent down confidentially. “They asked me for a recommendation, something local. I got the idea from you.” She winked at him and headed away to deliver the remaining two beers. When she returned, she took their order and hustled toward the kitchen.

Cork sat back in his chair and sipped from his bottle. “What do Geotech West, Longmont Venture Partners, Fortrell, Inc., and Realm-McCrae have to do with this?”

“Quite simply, development is a way to launder money.”

“How?”

“You know those Russian dolls, the ones where one doll fits inside another, which fits inside another, and so on? It’s a structure often used in this business to disguise the source of investment money. So Geotech is owned by Longmont, which along with Realm-McCrae is a subsidiary of Fortrell. I’m guessing that isn’t the end of this little doll game, but if we were able to get to the end, we might find someone who’d rather not have it known he’s investing in a casino. I know a lot of people who know people. Why don’t I make some calls tonight, see what I can uncover?”

Cork took a long draw on his beer. He could smell barbecue from the kitchen, and it made his mouth water. He put his bottle down. “One of the things I’m still wondering is who set up the charter flight.”

“Without Bodine’s records, is there any way you could find out?”

“Maybe George LeDuc said something to his wife. It wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

Parmer looked toward the restaurant door. “Think we’re in the clear?”

“What do you mean?”

“You were worried we’d been followed.”

“I’m still worried,” Cork said. “I’ll be worried until I have all the answers and all the evidence and put it into the hands of a cop I trust.”

“You could be worried for quite a while.”

Cork shook his head. “It’s always a question of finding a thread to tug, then things usually unravel quickly. And, Hugh, we’ve found our thread.”