Heaven's Keep

by William Kent Krueger

  “If that’s a Cessna Four Hundred, we’re in business,” Parmer said.

  Cork felt every muscle draw taut as they skirted the Piper Cub and approached the other plane. Cork wasn’t familiar with aircraft, and it wasn’t until he saw the word Beechcraft on the tail that he realized it was a dead end.

  “Damn,” Parmer said. “I suppose it was too much to hope for.”

  They did a brief search of the hangar and found maintenance records and a flight log, which showed a lot of activity, but none of it to Wisconsin.

  “What now?” Parmer asked.

  “Now we go up to the house and announce ourselves to Nightwind.”

  “And what? Ask him what he did with the plane and the people on it?”

  “Maybe. Maybe we bluff him a little and see if we can get a feel for the cards he’s holding.”

  “One gambler to another, that’s a risky strategy unless you know your opponent.”

  “Got a better suggestion?”

  Parmer said, “Your game. You deal the cards.”

  They exited the way they’d entered. As they rounded the corner of the hangar to return to their Jeep, they were confronted by a lanky man with a rifle. He was Indian, Arapaho, Cork guessed. Maybe sixty. He wore scuffed cowboy boots, jeans, a denim work shirt, and a beat-up brown cowboy hat. His face was deep in the shadow of the hat brim, but his dark eyes were clearly visible and clearly hostile.

  “You take another step, I’ll have to shoot,” he said. “Put those hands on top of your heads.”

  When they’d obeyed, he pulled a walkie-talkie from a holder on his belt and spoke into it.

  “Nick, you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bring the pickup down. I’ve bagged the coyotes. I think we ought to kill ’em and skin ’em.”

  Those hard eyes stared from beneath the brim of the hat, and Cork understood that the man wasn’t kidding.

  THIRTY-THREE

  He told them to sit with their hands clasped on top of their heads. They sat on the ground in the sun and squinted up at him.

  “Who are you?” Cork asked.

  “I work for Lame Nightwind.”

  “Where’s Nightwind?”

  “Gone.”

  “We were looking for him.”

  “People who are looking for him don’t sneak in the back way.”

  “We were lost,” Cork said.

  “And that’s why you crawled through the window into his hangar, cuz you were lost?”

  Cork gave it a moment, then said, “Any chance you’d believe me if I said yes?”

  The hardness of the eyes seemed blunted for an instant, and Cork thought the man might actually laugh. Instead he said, “You just sit tight and we’ll see what’s what.”

  “Worked for Nightwind long?” Cork asked.

  “Been breaking and entering long?” the man shot back.

  “Technically we just entered,” Cork said. “The window was unlocked.”

  “Technically I could probably shoot you. So why don’t you just close your mouth and be quiet.”

  The rifle in the man’s hands made the advice seem more than reasonable, and Cork followed it.

  The only sound the isolation of that distant piece of the reservation offered was the soft sweep of wind. Under different circumstances, Cork thought maybe he could appreciate that aspect of the place.

  In a few minutes, the thump and rattle of a truck over hard terrain reached them. A pickup came into view, heading down the dirt track from the ranch compound. It stopped near the Arapaho with the rifle. The sun reflected off the windshield in a way that made the driver invisible to Cork. The door opened. A boy got out, a kid no older than Cork’s own son. Like the man, he was Indian.

  “You call No Voice?” the man asked.

  “He’s on his way.”

  Cork realized he’d seen the young Arapaho before, on his first visit to Red Hawk. The kid had stood beneath the burning cross that hung over the front door of the mission in the reservation town. He seemed to recognize Cork, and he spoke in Arapaho to the man with the rifle. The man looked at Cork in a different way.

  “You the one who lost his wife when that plane went down?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  The kid spoke again in Arapaho. The man spoke back, angrily. He jerked his head toward the pickup. The boy walked to the truck, dropped the tailgate, and rummaged in back. He returned with a roll of duct tape.

  The man with the rifle said to Cork, “My grandson’s going to toss you the duct tape. I want you to tape your friend’s hands behind his back. Then toss the duct tape to my grandson.”

  Cork did as he was instructed, binding Parmer’s hands together at the small of his back, then he threw the tape to the kid.

  “Turn around, hands behind your back. My grandson’ll do the same to your hands. You try anything, I’ll blow your head off.”

  The kid secured Cork’s hands and stepped back.

  “Climb into the truck bed,” the man ordered.

  Cork and Parmer did as instructed. The kid slammed the tailgate shut and got behind the wheel.

  “You two sit tight. We’re going up to the ranch house. Anything stupid and you’re dead. Understand?”

  The man got in the cab, and his grandson drove them to the compound. The truck drew up to the outbuilding next to the barn. There were three doors—two large doors for the entry of vehicles and one smaller door for human use. The Arapaho with the rifle got out and entered the building through the smaller door. A moment later one of the big doors swung up mechanically. The boy drove the truck in and parked next to a yellow Allis-Chalmers backhoe with a blade mounted on the front. A couple of ATVs were parked there as well. Shovels, picks, pry bars, and other digging implements hung from hooks on the walls. There was a long workbench and above it a Peg-Board full of hand tools. The building smelled of oil and grease but was clean. The older Arapaho dropped the tailgate.

  “Get out,” he said.

  Cork and Parmer scooted off the truck bed. The kid joined his grandfather.

  “Sit down,” the grandfather said to the two men.

  They sat in the shade of the outbuilding. The kid said something to his grandfather in Arapaho, and the older man shook his head. The boy looked disappointed. He headed toward the rear of the outbuilding and returned with two folding chairs, which he set facing Cork and Parmer, some distance away. He sat in one, his grandfather in the other, with the rifle across his legs.

  “Is Nightwind gone a lot?” Cork asked.

  “No talking,” the Arapaho said.

  “You live in that cabin we saw up there in the hills?”

  “Another word, I stuff this rifle butt down your throat.”

  No more words were spoken. Half an hour later, Andrew No Voice, chief of the Owl Creek Arapaho Police, arrived. He climbed from his Blazer and stood with his arms crossed, looking down at Cork and Parmer.

  “Understand you gentlemen’ve been involved in a little breaking and entering.”

  “No,” the older Arapaho said.

  No Voice glanced his way. “Message I got said that was the case.”

  “They were snooping, that’s all.”

  “Snooping? You sure got ’em trussed up good for snooping.”

  “A misunderstanding,” the Arapaho said.

  No Voice looked at the kid. “That right, Nick? Just a little misunderstanding?”

  “Yes,” the kid said.

  “I want them off Nightwind’s land,” the older Arapaho said. “I want them gone, and I don’t want them to come back.”

  “Prefer charges,” No Voice said, “and I can guarantee they won’t be back.”

  “No. No charges.”

  “Where’s Lame?” No Voice asked.

  “Gone.”

  “All right.” The policeman was clearly not thrilled with the Arapaho’s position. “I’ll take ’em into Red Hawk, deal with them there.”

  “We have a Jeep,” Cork said. “It’s down at the
hangar.”

  “Let’s get it and get you two out of here.”

  “Mind cutting us loose?”

  “I’m not inclined to do that just yet.”

  He herded them into the back of his Blazer and drove to the hangar.

  “Who’s got the keys?” he asked.

  “I do,” Cork said.

  No Voice opened Cork’s door. “Get out.”

  After Cork complied, No Voice turned him roughly, took a pocket-knife from a pouch on his belt, opened the blade, and slit the tape that bound his wrists.

  “You drive the Jeep,” No Voice said. “Follow me to Red Hawk. I’ll keep your partner in my vehicle. Just a little insurance in case you’re inclined toward a different destination.”

  In the Jeep, Cork followed No Voice back up the dirt track to the compound. The Arapaho and his grandson still stood in the shade of the outbuilding. Cork waved as he passed to let them know he bore them no ill will. They didn’t respond, just stood watching as the two vehicles kicked up dust on their way out.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Red Hawk drowsed in the May afternoon sun. Several pickups stood parked at the Chevron gas station and mini-mart. On the porch of the senior home across the street, two white-haired women rocked and watched No Voice’s Blazer and Cork’s Jeep crawl past. In the playing field behind the school, a bunch of kids were kicking a soccer ball around. No Voice pulled into the parking lot of the Reservation Business Center. He got out, opened the door for Parmer, and was in the process of cutting the tape that still bound Parmer’s wrists when Cork pulled alongside and parked.

  “Inside, O’Connor,” No Voice said. After they’d entered, he pointed to the right. “End of the hall. I’m right behind you.”

  As they approached, Cork realized they were headed to the office of Ellyn Grant.

  “We’re expected?” Cork said.

  “Oh, yeah. Go right in.”

  Beyond the door, much of the large office was still occupied by the miniature rendering of the Gateway Grand Casino.

  Ellyn Grant looked up from her desk. Her face was the color and hardness of desert sandstone. She’d been writing, but she put her pen down very deliberately.

  “Thank you, Andy. You can wait outside.”

  No Voice retreated and closed the door.

  “Mr. O’Connor, we meet again. And you must be Hugh Parmer,” she said. “I’m Ellyn Grant.”

  Parmer nodded and said, “Ah.”

  “I understand you two gentlemen have concerns about our casino development.”

  “Actually, Ellyn, my concerns go way beyond your casino.”

  “I’d be interested in hearing them.” She flipped her hand in invitation toward two empty chairs, and the men sat. “Well?”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Cork said. “You ask me a question, something you’d like to know, and I’ll give you an answer. In return, I’ll ask you a question and you give me an answer. Keeps us on equal footing.”

  “I could simply have you thrown in jail.”

  “Not here. No Voice has no jurisdiction over whites accused of breaking the law on the rez. But I suppose you might have the right influence with Sheriff Kosmo. Problem is that it doesn’t get either of us any of the answers we’re looking for.”

  She weighed his proposition. “All right.”

  “What would you like to know?” he said.

  “That’s a question, Mr. O’Connor. I thought I got to go first.” She gave him a cool, satisfied smile. “It’s my understanding that you believe the plane that went missing with my husband and your wife aboard didn’t crash in the mountains. What do you think did happen to it?”

  “I think it was flown somewhere and landed.”

  “Flown where?”

  Cork held up his hand to stop her. “My turn.” He leaned forward. “Is Lame Nightwind in love with you?”

  His question clearly caught her off guard. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  Cork sat back. “Hell, if you’re not going to tell me the truth, I’ll just throw a few lies your way, too. We’ll get nowhere.”

  For several seconds, she stared at him without blinking, and he thought of the Sphinx of Egypt.

  “Yes,” she finally replied. “He’s in love with me.”

  “He’s loved you since you were kids, isn’t that true?”

  “My turn,” she said. “Where do you believe the plane landed?”

  “My best guess at the moment is Nightwind’s airstrip. Forget about the question I just asked. I’m going to assume that he’s loved you forever. So my question is this: Do you love him?”

  “No,” she said. “And yes.”

  “Care to explain?”

  “That’s another question.” She picked up the pen she’d been using and toyed with it. “If you think the plane landed at Lame’s airstrip, you must believe that he was involved. I’d be interested in knowing why you believe this.”

  “We know that it wasn’t Clinton Bodine who flew the plane,” Cork told her. “I believe he was dead before the charter ever left the ground in Wisconsin. But everyone agrees that the pilot who flew out of Casper was Indian. Nightwind told me last year when I met him that he flew to a lot of powwows. So did Clinton Bodine. It’s not hard to imagine that at some point they bumped into each other. That was probably what gave Nightwind the idea for the pilot switch. We also know that your husband was opposed to the Gateway Grand Casino. He was a problem that needed taking care of.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He needed to be removed from the picture. Killed. Which you helped with.”

  “You think I would actually take part in something like that?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Who you love more, your husband or the Arapaho. The way I see it, you were in trouble. Or more specifically, the Owl Creek Reservation was in trouble. You’d promised wealth you couldn’t deliver. You built your little casino thinking it would bring in good money to fund all your fine improvements. But it didn’t work out that way because Hot Springs is too far off the beaten path. All those millions of people headed to Yellowstone stay to the south or to the north, and neither the Blue Sky Casino nor the healing spring waters are enough to entice them to make a detour.

  “So there you are, trapped. You’ve invested whatever resources the rez has in an enterprise that’s going south. Your husband’s answer is to open the reservation to gas and oil exploration, which you see as rape. Then maybe something like this happens: Some people come to you, offer you a sweet deal. They’ll carry your debt. Hell, maybe even provide cash for some of those improvements on the rez so that your credibility holds together. And in return you use the sovereign status of the Arapaho to help these people build a casino, the biggest between Atlantic City and Las Vegas, at the doorway to Yellowstone. It’s a partnership that promises the kind of income you’d always dreamed of for the Owl Creek Arapaho. Only one problem. Your partners aren’t nice people. They’re the kind of people who make people disappear. And when your husband doesn’t come around to your way of thinking, he needs to be one of the people who disappears.”

  “I had nothing to do with anyone disappearing.”

  “No? You were with your husband in Casper before the plane left that morning, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And his glasses went missing?”

  “I don’t really remember.”

  “He would have been pretty blind without them?”

  “I suppose so, yes.”

  “Which would be necessary, because if he could see when he got on that plane, he’d have recognized Nightwind. Maybe Nightwind alters his voice some and your husband is none the wiser.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “You want to hear something really absurd? You knew all along that the plane hadn’t gone down in Baby’s Cradle, but you and Nightwind kept pointing us there. Why? Because Will Pope’s vision was true and you had to misdirect us so that we wouldn’t be think
ing about what his vision was really telling us. But we’re going to figure that out, Ellyn, and when we do, your whole card castle is going to tumble.”

  “That’s enough,” she said. “We’re finished.”

  “Let me tell you one more thing. If I were you, I’d be very careful and I wouldn’t travel alone. Because the closer we get to the evidence we need to prove these things, the greater a liability you become to the people behind all this.”

  She laughed harshly. “I’ve dealt with tough people before, Mr. O’Connor. They don’t scare me. And if what you say is true, it seems to me that you and your friend are the ones who ought to be careful. It would be much easier for these people, if they exist, to simply make you disappear.”

  “True enough. On the other hand, the more folks we talk to, and believe me we’ve talked to a lot, the more will come asking the same questions if we vanish. Easier, it seems to me, to cut the threads that tie these bad people to the missing plane. And those threads would be you and Lame Nightwind.”

  The door opened, and Dewey Quinn walked in with No Voice behind him.

  “Sorry to break in like this, Ms. Grant,” Quinn said, “but I need to take these men back to Hot Springs. The sheriff would like to see them.”

  “That’s all right, Dewey.” She gave Cork one last look that seemed chipped from flint. “Our business is finished.”

  “Think about it, Ellyn,” Cork said. “And if I were you, I’d talk to Nightwind, tell him to watch his back.”

  “Good day, gentlemen.”

  Quinn and No Voice escorted them out to the parking lot, where Quinn shook hands with his colleague.

  “Love to see ’em charged with something,” No Voice said.

  “I’m sure Jim’ll let you know what he decides, Andy. Thanks.”

  Before No Voice headed to his Blazer, he said to Cork and Parmer, “You men, I catch you on the rez again, I’ll be happy to dispense a little of my own Arapaho justice. Understand?” He got into his vehicle and left.

  Quinn said, “Mr. Parmer, you mind driving the Jeep? I’d like to have a word with Cork on the way back.”

  “No problem.”