Heaven's Keep

by William Kent Krueger

  “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.

  FOURTEEN

  Day Five, Missing 105 Hours

  It 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 cr
edible 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.”

  She handed him her business card, and after she’d stepped back, he closed the door.

  While they ate, they watched television, CNN’s continuing coverage of what had become known as the Hargrove standoff. The compound was surrounded, and Hargrove was threatening to blow everything sky-high if anyone tried to rush the place. The authorities weren’t certain how many people were inside, but they did know a significant number of them were children. They were attempting to negotiate.

  Halfway through their meal, another knock disturbed them.

  “Damn it,” Cork said and stomped to the door. “What?” he snapped as he opened up. Dewey Quinn stood there, looking startled. “Sorry,” Cork said. “I thought you were that reporter.”

  “Felicia Gray? She was here?”

  “Just a few minutes ago.”

  “What did she want?” He waved it off. “Doesn’t matter. I got a call from the office. You dropped by looking for me?”

  “Yeah. Come on in. Gray might still be out there.”

  When Dewey was inside, Stephen said, “Hello, Deputy Quinn.”

  “It’s okay if you call me Dewey, Stephen. I understand you’ve been looking for me, Cork. Sorry to make this short, but my wife’s waiting in the car.”

  “We talked to Will Pope this afternoon,” Cork told him.

  “And he has you believing in Baby’s Cradle?”

  “I think it’s worth sending some search planes that way.”

  “Cork, when the question of Baby’s Cradle first came up, I talked to Commander Nickleson. She was absolutely convinced that there was no merit in searching that area. Apparently it’s a tough airspace to fly, and none of her pilots were particularly eager to try. Honestly, I agree with her assessment. There’s no value in diverting planes to Baby’s Cradle. But I’ll tell you what. If Jon Rude is willing, I’ll give him my blessing to join Nightwind.”

  “There’s a new weather forecast, Dewey. Have you heard?”

  He nodded. “Snow in a couple of days. Cork, we don’t have any real idea where to look. I understand that if you don’t check out this lead, you’ll be left wondering. I don’t want that. Go with Rude tomorrow and the next, if need be. In the meantime, we’ll try to cover everything else.”

  Cork noticed for the first time that Quinn was wearing a sport coat and tie. “Going out?”

  “My wife likes to dance. There’s a place in Riverton.” Quinn looked uncomfortable. “I have a life beyond the office.”

  “I know, Dewey. Have a good time.”

  “You guys get some sleep, okay?” He smiled wearily at them both and left.

  Although it was late, Cork called his family in Aurora and filled them in. He tried to sound hopeful about Baby’s Cradle. By the time he’d finished, Stephen had nodded off with his clothes on. Cork looked at his son, who was really not much more than a boy. This was hard business, something no boy should have to endure, yet Stephen continued to be strong and Cork was proud of him.

  He put the room key card in his pocket and slipped outside. He went down to the courtyard, as he had the night before, and stood amid the vapors rising from the hot spring water that filled the small pool. He eyed the black sky and the stars and thought about the mountains to the west, which had begun to seem to him like malevolent, living things, angry giants against whom he felt puny and weak. And beyond those mountains was something worse. The fury of another storm. It seemed that all the great forces of the earth were mounted against him. And against Jo.

  He closed his eyes and began to pray, but in the middle of the prayer, his mind took an odd turn. He saw, unexpected and star-tlingly vivid, the image of the blazing cross above the small church in Red Hawk and the boy who’d stood under it. He had an overwhelming sense that if he opened his eyes he’d find the boy before him now.

  But when he looked, there was only the darkness of the night, the ghosts of the vapors, and the lost words of his prayer that had been cut short.

  FIFTEEN

  Day Six, Missing 118 Hours

  When Cork and Stephen arrived at the airfield the next morning, Rude was already there with another man, bent over a map spread on the hood of Rude’s pickup.

  “Morning, guys,” Rude said. “This is Lame Deer Nightwind.”

  Nightwind looked up from the map. “Boozhoo,” he said. In response to the surprise on Cork’s face, he brought out a relaxed smile. “I go to a lot of powwows. I can say hello in a dozen indigenous languages. That and ‘I’ll have a beer.’ ” He was no taller than Cork, a decade younger, lean and hard as rebar. He had eyes like shiny beetle shells, high, proud cheekbones, and that easy smile.

  The sky was clear, the morning cold, the air dry. The southern Absarokas on the horizon were like a big wave rolling out of a calm sea. The men and Stephen stood around the hood of Rude’s pickup, peering at the topographic map.

  Nightwind drew a circle with his index finger. “This is where we’re headed. You can see from the contours why it’s called Baby’s Cradle. These ridges form a box roughly ten miles long and five miles wide. At the bottom is Sleeping Baby Lake. It’s a good-size glacial lake. It drains through a break in the ridge to the north—here.” He nailed the spot with the tip of his finger. “The break’s called Giant’s Gate. That’s where we fly in, and that’s where things can get tricky. I’ve been telling Jon that when the wind comes out of the north, it funnels through Giant’s Gate and whirls around inside Baby’s Cradle like a hurricane. Kicks up snow so bad it’s a blizzard in there. Can be plenty rough. Either of you prone to airsickness?”

  “No,” Stephen said without hesitation.

  Cork said, “Don’t think so, but it might depend on how bad it turns out to be.”

  “Wind’s out of the west today, so not so bad,” Nightwind said. “Jon’s willing to give it a try.”

  Cork studied the map. “If Baby’s Cradle is so difficult to get into, why would the pilot have flown in there?”

  “Mostly it would have been by accident,” Nightwind replied. “The ridge to the north is the lowest side of Baby’s Cradle. Up here is where the last radio transmission from the pilot was made”—Nightwind tapped the spot on the map—“indicating he was descending from eighteen thousand feet. If he turned back and then decided he couldn’t make it to Casper and headed instead for the Riverton airport”—he traced the line with his finger—“depending on the altitude he was able to maintain and the radius of his turn, he could have flown straight into Baby’s Cradle.”

  “How about flying out of Baby’s Cradle?” Cork said.

  “Depends on the conditions, visibility, the trouble the pilot was experiencing with his plane. If he got in there and didn’t begin a climb pretty quick, the ridge at the south end would’ve been hard to clear.”

  “Still game?” Rude said.

  Cork nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  Rude lifted off first and headed northwest. After Nightwind became airborne, he took the lead and Rude followed. They flew over the little valley where Rude had his spread, and then across the desolate landscape of the northern Owl Creek Reservation. Where the sun had heated the outcroppings, the snow had melted completely, leaving a patchwork of yellow or red rock surrounded by white earth in a way that reminded Cork of the mottled hi
de of a mangy dog.

  After twenty minutes, Nightwind climbed steeply and banked to the north. Rude followed. Below them, the peaks of the southern Absarokas seemed to reach toward the belly of Rude’s chopper as if to snatch it from the sky. In the distance, Cork recognized the immense, icy wall of Heaven’s Keep, more imposing than anything else in that part of the range. The air currents grew powerful, knocking the helicopter around like a cat with a ball of yarn. Nightwind curled sharply to the west, and Rude stayed on his tail. Cork felt his stomach object to the maneuver, and he glanced at Stephen, who seemed not bothered in the least.

  “We’re lucky,” Rude said. “Lame knows these mountains better than anyone I can think of. Hell, he’s a better pilot than anyone I can think of.”

  “What’s his story?” Cork asked.

  “Don’t know it all. Born on the rez, but no father ever came forward. His mother was caught up in booze and drugs. They found her dead in her trailer when Lame was just a kid. Story is he was sitting beside her like he was waiting for her to wake up. She’d been dead awhile, I guess. When they tried to remove her body, Lame went berserk, stabbed one of the guys with a knife. Andy No Voice swears it’s true. Fierce little five-year-old protecting his dead mother.” He shook his head, and Cork couldn’t tell if it was out of admiration or bemusement. “An old uncle took him in. Kept to himself in a place he’d built way out to hell and gone in the foothills. Raised Lame like a little mountain man, hunting, fishing, trapping in the Absarokas. Somewhere along the way, his uncle died, don’t know how. Lame got sent to live with his mother’s cousin, woman who’d married a guy in Lander. That was Ellyn Grant’s family. Gave them trouble, I guess. At seventeen, he took off to God knows where. Gone for a lot of years. Nobody heard boo from him. Then he shows up on the rez maybe half a dozen years ago. He’s got himself a nice plane, some capital. Builds a place on the land where he’d lived with his uncle, snug up against the Absarokas. He still flies out periodically, gone for a few days or weeks. Nobody knows where, but everybody’s got a speculation.”