Heaven's Keep

by William Kent Krueger

  “And the other?”

  He shrugged. “The bed’s too big. I still sleep on the half I’ve always slept on.”

  The talking died again. The only sound came from the waves breaking on the shore beyond the dunes.

  “You loved her.” It wasn’t a question.

  “That I did. And though it doesn’t do me any good, I still do.”

  “You won’t let yourself hope that she might still be alive?”

  “It wouldn’t make sense.” He eyed the bone white dunes. “You should go to bed.”

  “You’re right.” She looked like she was going to say something more but just said, “Good night,” then turned and walked away.

  He stayed at the window. When he was sure he was alone, he said quietly, “And it would hurt too much.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  After breakfast the next morning, Burns drove them into Duluth, and Parmer bought a BlackBerry to replace the one he’d lost to the river the night before. Then she took them to the airport, where Parmer rented another Navigator and they said their good-byes. Parmer took the wheel. They arrived in Aurora shortly before noon, and their first stop was the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Office. Marsha Dross was one of the people Cork had called the night before from the emergency room.

  “It’s a fascinating story, Cork, but you understand that you have no proof of anything. Not a single shred of solid evidence.”

  “There’s the videotape that shows the man in the bar in Casper wasn’t really drinking.”

  “It’s suspicious, of course, and it would probably be useful in the civil suits that have been filed against Bodine, but it proves nothing criminal. And why would anyone go to so much trouble? You still don’t have a motive. Or bodies, for that matter.”

  “I believe I’ll find the motive in Wyoming. Maybe the bodies will follow.”

  They sat in Dross’s office, where the windows were open to the fresh breeze of the late spring day and to the coos of a couple of doves courting in the branches of the maple on the front lawn. Her desk was awash in budget documents, and Cork recognized the worn look on her face from dealing with an aspect of the job no sheriff enjoyed.

  “What are you going to do when you get to Hot Springs?” she went on. “You lay all this out, and there’s not enough substance for the Owl Creek County authorities to do anything.”

  “That’ll have to be their decision.”

  She laughed in a tired way and swept her hand over the documents on her desk. “I can tell you right now that if I were them and as strapped for money as we are here and as most sheriffs’ departments tend to be, I wouldn’t commit any resources based on your story.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll do my own investigation without their help. I’ve done all right so far.”

  “Yeah, you almost got yourself killed.” She sat back and folded her hands, and in the quiet all they could hear was the sound of the doves cooing. “What do you want from me, Cork?”

  “Well, it relates in a way to your last comment. That we almost got ourselves killed.”

  “Okay.” She looked at him, her face puzzled.

  “If we don’t come back, I’d be much obliged if you took up the flag, so to speak. Make sure the job gets finished.”

  She studied him. “And what about Stephen?”

  “He’ll want to help you. Let him do what he can.”

  “I mean, what about him? If you don’t come back, he’s an orphan.”

  “God and Henry Meloux willing, he’ll also be a man. It will be something he’ll have to deal with, and he will. He’ll still have family.”

  She shook her head slowly. “You’re really going to do this.”

  “I am.”

  She looked at Parmer. “You, too?”

  “Call me crazy,” Parmer said with a smile.

  At Parmer’s hotel, where Cork had parked his Bronco, the two men parted ways, with an understanding that they’d regroup no later than two o’clock. Cork went home to throw things into his suitcase, and then he drove to Henry Meloux’s place.

  He found the old Mide sitting near the fire ring beyond the rock outcropping at the end of Crow Point. Meloux had a small fire going, and into the flames he fed sprigs of sage and shavings of cedar. Walleye lay near, drowsing in the warm sun.

  “Anin, Henry,” Cork said, approaching.

  “Anin, Corcoran O’Connor. Sit.”

  Cork sat on one of the cut sections of log placed around the fire ring.

  “It is not yet finished,” the Mide said.

  “I didn’t think it would be, Henry. He’s doing okay, though, right?”

  “How he is doing is in the hands of Kitchimanidoo. But his spirit is fine and strong and his desire is true. I would not worry, Corcoran O’Connor.”

  “Henry, there’s something I need to ask you.”

  “Then ask.”

  “There is a man in Wyoming, an Arapaho. He’s a spirit walker.”

  “I have heard of such men.”

  “He is also a man who drinks.”

  “Sometimes dreams are like knives. They wound. And for some dreamers alcohol helps the pain.”

  “He had a vision about the missing plane. We checked it, but it didn’t pan out. I wrote it off as drunken nonsense. But now I’m wondering about that vision.”

  “Tell me.”

  Cork explained what Will Pope claimed to have seen.

  The old Mide shook his head. “I cannot tell you about his vision. I do not know this man. You have met him, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you should be able to answer your own question.”

  “I believed him, Henry. But when we didn’t find Jo, I chalked it up to his drinking. Now I don’t know. Maybe we simply misinterpreted the meaning.”

  “Another key without a lock.”

  Cork looked at him.

  Meloux explained, “Stephen, too, had a vision that he has not yet understood.”

  “The white door,” Cork said.

  “You are being given much,” the old man said. “The spirits are on your side. That is a good thing.”

  “Why don’t the spirits just tell us things, Henry? How come they make it so hard?”

  The old man laughed. “I think it is like this. The spirits shoot an arrow. It is past us before we can see it clearly. But if we follow, eventually we come to the place where it has lodged. And we realize the arrow is not important. What is important is the place it has guided us to.”

  “One more thing, Henry. Where I’m going, this place I might come to, it looks like it’s going to be full of folks who’d prefer me dead.”

  “Ah,” Meloux said and nodded. “You want me to return your firearms.”

  “No, that’s not it. What I want is for you to help Stephen understand if I don’t come back.”

  “What is there to understand? You have seen the road you must walk and you will walk it. Long ago, your own father walked a road out of your life. Did you understand?”

  “Yes. But it hurt like hell.”

  “I did not say it would be easy for Stephen.”

  “Migwech, Henry.”

  “I have done nothing yet,” the old Mide said. “Stay a bit and we will smoke and send to the spirits our wish that you return.”

  After he left Meloux, Cork drove a series of logging roads that took him eventually to Allouette, the main town on the Iron Lake Reservation. He pulled up in front of the Mocha Moose, the coffee shop owned by Sarah LeDuc, and went inside. The sound of Bill Miller’s Indian flute came from the CD player on a shelf near the back. There weren’t many customers, and Cork knew most of them. Normally he’d have received a good welcome, but there was a decidedly chilly current in the place that was blowing in his direction. Sarah stood behind the counter with her back to Cork.

  “Boozhoo, Sarah,” he said.

  She turned with a smile of greeting on her face, but when she saw who it was, the smiled dropped like a shot bird.

  “Could I talk to you for
a minute?”

  “I’m kind of busy right now,” she said.

  “It’s important.”

  “Wouldn’t have anything to do with you working for the woman whose husband killed George?”

  Word had spread quickly. It didn’t surprise him. On the rez telegraph, information seemed to move at the speed of light.

  “Sarah, listen to me—”

  “Look, not all of us are millionaires. The money from that lawsuit, it’ll go a long way to helping us out since we don’t have George.”

  “Sarah, will you just listen for a minute?”

  “I don’t understand you, Cork. Why would you help these people? Why would you want to hurt our case?”

  “What if I could prove to you that Clinton Bodine wasn’t drinking? What if I could prove to you that he wasn’t even flying that plane when it disappeared?”

  “I’d say you were a liar or a magician.”

  “Sarah, I’m almost certain he was killed before his plane took off to pick up George and Jo. He wasn’t even on the plane. Or if he was, he was stuffed in the luggage compartment and in no condition to complain.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So . . .” She squinted, trying to put together in a few seconds what had taken Cork a couple of days to understand. “So, what exactly is going on?”

  “I don’t know. I’m trying to find out, and maybe you can help.”

  “How?”

  “Did George talk to you about the National Congress of American Indians in Seattle?”

  “Of course. George talked to me about everything.”

  “He and Jo were working on a report that had to do with gaming regulations.”

  “Yeah, I read it.”

  “Was there anything remarkably controversial or threatening in the report?”

  “Not at all. It came down to recommending an oversight group. George had pushed for it because he was concerned that if we didn’t regulate ourselves the government would be more than willing to step in and do it for us. A couple of months ago some of the people organizing this year’s congress contacted me and asked if George kept a copy of the report in his files. I found it and sent it along. It’s supposed to be on the agenda this November.”

  “Jo told me that George asked her to fly with him to Seattle. Did he arrange for Bodine to fly them?”

  She thought a moment. “I think it was one of the Wyoming people. But honestly, Cork, that was so long ago I couldn’t say for sure.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “But, you know,” she said, “I believe it had some connection with powwows. I don’t remember how exactly, just that George mentioned it.”

  Cork mulled it over. “Bodine’s wife said he often flew groups to powwows around the country. It was a big part of his business.”

  “Does this help?”

  “Everything we learn helps.”

  A thought came to her, and her face looked deeply troubled. “If Clinton Bodine wasn’t flying that plane, who was?”

  “That’s one of the things I’m trying to find out. And I think I’m on the right track. Somebody tried to kill me yesterday.”

  “Cork, no!”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  He told her what he’d been doing for the last forty-eight hours.

  At the end, she looked stricken. “That poor woman. She lost her husband, too, and all these months I’ve been thinking such horrible things about him. I’ve been steeling myself for this lawsuit, trying not to see her as someone I should feel any pity for. But she’s just like me, isn’t she?”

  “Pretty much. I think you’d like her if you got to know her.”

  She put both hands on the counter, and her dark eyes were aflame. “What can I do to help?”

  Cork loved her for that, loved how quickly her ice had turned to fire. It was part of what George LeDuc had loved about her, too.

  “If you think of anything, call me. Use my cell number.” He gave her one of his cards. “I’m going to Wyoming today to ask some questions out there.”

  “You be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “And you’ll let me know what you find out?”

  “You can bank on it.”

  He turned to leave but was stopped by the fragile hope in Sarah’s next words. “Cork, if what we believed isn’t true, is it possible—”

  He spun and cut her off. “No. They’re dead, Sarah. That’s the one thing in all this that is true. They’re dead.”

  She nodded and looked down at the wood floor. Cork left her that way.

  THIRTY

  Cork stopped at the house and checked Jo’s computer. He located the file that contained the report she’d prepared for the National Congress of American Indians. He scanned it quickly and could see nothing particularly threatening about it.

  When he arrived at the Four Seasons, he found Parmer waiting. They took his rented Navigator and headed back to Duluth, where Parmer’s private jet was being readied for their departure.

  “I got a call while you were gone,” Parmer said. “From the people I asked to look into Fortrell. We’re heading into stormy weather here, Cork.”

  “We’re already in it, Hugh. What about Fortrell?”

  “The money for a lot of Fortrell’s investments, and probably for the Realm-McCrae casino project, comes from loans secured from the Western Continental Bank of Denver. Western Continental is a legitimate investment bank, but it’s also known to be a funnel for money from investors hiding behind the veil of foreign private banks. PBs they’re called in financial circles. The chief value of PBs is the confidentiality of their services. They operate outside the constraints of banks in this country and are able to handle money for their clients with great secrecy. Because they’re banks, they can move large amounts in ways that individuals can’t. They’re the perfect mechanism for laundering.

  “As nearly as my people can tell, the money for the loan came from a PB in Aruba, the Antilles Investment Bank. There are a number of PBs that operate out of that island, and many are suspected of being favored by the mob. The Antilles Investment Bank is one of them.”

  “Okay, let me get this straight. You’re telling me that, in the end, the money trail for building that casino leads back to organized crime?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but it certainly seems like a reasonable speculation.”

  “Doesn’t anybody check on these things?”

  Parmer shook his head. “There’s so much development going on that unless something raises a red flag, nobody notices. Now a casino is probably a little different. It might get more scrutiny. But my guess is that all it would take to be certain nobody asks the wrong questions would be plenty of green delivered to the right hands. Happens all the time. And even if questions are raised, we go back to the beauty of the veil of the PB. Who’s to say for certain where the money came from?”

  “That might explain a lot,” Cork said. “But it still doesn’t explain why they wanted Bodine’s plane to disappear.”

  “Maybe that report you told me about, the one Jo put together on Indians regulating gaming themselves?”

  “I read it,” Cork said. “Just a lot of recommendations. It didn’t have any teeth. And Indians don’t do things quickly, without a lot of consideration and talk. Even if there was general agreement that the recommendations were a good thing, it would take a very long time for anything to happen.”

  “Was there something really damning in the report, something that pointed fingers?”

  Cork stared at the empty road ahead. “I don’t think the report is what this is about. I don’t think we’ve found the reason yet.”

  They landed in Casper at 4:00 P.M. Cork rented a Jeep Wrangler, and they drove to the address they had for Geotech West, which turned out to be in a strip mall at the edge of the city. The place was locked, and when he peered through the storefront window, Cork could see that the furnishings were Spartan at best. He went to the business
next door, a print shop, and spoke to the middle-aged guy who came to the front counter and turned out to be the owner. He told them he never saw anybody in the Geotech West office. He figured it was some fool prospecting enterprise that had gone bust. There were a lot of those in Wyoming, he said.

  Outside, Parmer said, “Like I told you, a doll inside another doll.”

  Next they drove to the hotel where Jo and the others had stayed the night before their plane vanished. At the front desk, Cork asked to speak with the manager, and when she appeared Cork handed her his business card.

  “Of course I remember them,” she said. “Because of what happened to them, they’re hard to forget.”

  “They all stayed here?”

  “Everyone on the plane, yes.”

  “Even the pilot?”

  “Him, too, as I recall.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual while they were here?”

  “No. Except one of them put up kind of a stink just before they left. He lost his glasses and claimed he was blind without them. He couldn’t find them in his room. Had us looking in the trash and in laundry bags. Hell, everywhere.”

  “Did you find them?”

  “No. Seems to me his wife promised she’d send him a pair when she got home.”

  “His wife?”

  “Yes, she was here with him. She didn’t go on the plane, though. Lucky for her.”

  “Do you remember which of the guests it was who lost his glasses?”

  “I don’t recall his name, but it was one of the older gentlemen.”

  “What do you recall about his wife?”

  “Much younger.”

  “Does the name Edgar Little Bear ring a bell?”

  “I really couldn’t say. It’s been such a long time. But it is funny that you’re asking me these things. Felicia Gray from Channel Five asked me pretty much the same things.”

  “When was that?”

  “A few weeks ago, shortly before she died.”

  “She’s dead?”

  “Oh, yeah. Big news in these parts. Her car went off the road in the badlands west of here.”

  “An accident?”

  “I think she blew a front tire and lost control.”