The Glacier Gallows

by Stephen Legault

  Cole quipped, “What, no appetizers? No canapés? Next time I’ll hire a different outfit.”

  Walter reached farther into his pack and pulled out two cans of beer. Cole’s face brightened. Walter opened one of the cans and handed it to his brother. “That make things better?”

  “Damn right!”

  They drank their beer and ate dinner. As the sun fell behind the peaks to the west, Cole stood and stretched. “I wish Nancy was here.”

  “I can understand her wanting to get back to work.” Walter was tidying up their dishes.

  “She’s got some sources in Vancouver that she can work with on this. You know, the feds really hung me out to dry.” Cole looked pale despite the rosy light.

  “Can she write about it?”

  “That’s always the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question between us. Not easy having an award-winning journalist for a girlfriend.”

  “You two look good together, Cole. I’m happy for you.” The men contemplated the deep blue of dusk. “What do you think got Brian Marriott out of his tent?” asked Walter.

  “Maybe he just had to get up to take a leak.”

  “Did you notice him do that any other night?”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Let’s assume that someone woke him up, just for the sake of argument. And for the sake of argument, let’s assume it was Blake. Maybe he said there was some kind of medical emergency.”

  Cole stood up. “But how did he lure him to the cliff?”

  “Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he killed him right here.”

  “I don’t think so.” Cole bent to look at the rocks. “Silencer or no silencer, there would still be blood all over the place.

  “Blood would have been obvious. I would have seen it on the tent when I went to check on Brian that morning. The techs would have looked too. I think Foreman lured Brian to the cliff somehow.

  “Maybe he said that he saw the northern lights. City boy like Brian would want to see that. We had talked about them the night before.” Cole snapped his fingers. “The guides had been going on about how awesome it was to see them from up high. Brian had never seen them.”

  “Well, that could be it,” said Walter. “Foreman wakes him up and tells him that there’s this awesome northern lights display and walks him over here, and then the killer emerges and shoots him.”

  “That would mean that Brian was already dead when I got up. It was already getting light when I was up at five. So the killer, or Foreman, would have snuck back into my tent after I went for my morning walk and replaced the shirt of mine that he wore when he pulled the trigger. But when did he steal it from me?” asked Cole.

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “I guess it could have been anytime. I wouldn’t have noticed it missing as I hadn’t worn it yet. Even if I had noticed, I would likely have assumed I’d forgotten to bring it. I just wonder how the killer, or Foreman, got into my bag in the first place.”

  “Well, you go off to align your chakras or whatever you were doing at 5:00 AM and the killer can take the shirt one morning and put it back the next.”

  “Yeah, I remember that my bag seemed different when I got back that last morning. I didn’t really pay attention to it at the time.”

  “Did the FBI dust it?”

  “Yeah. Only my fingerprints on it. Killer most likely wore gloves.”

  “Why set you up? Why not just kill Brian and leave it be? If Brian knew something he wasn’t supposed to, then why not just push him over the edge and be done with it? It would have solved the killer’s problem.”

  “Or why not kill us both? If the intent was to get us both out of the way, why not shoot us both? It’s a big risk trying to pin the murder on me. I mean, look what’s happened.”

  “I think the answer to that is more obvious, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean, Walt?”

  “I mean, if someone had come all the way up here and killed you both, then there would be nobody to pin this on as a diversion from the real motive. But if they framed you, nobody was going to be looking around for why Brian got killed in the first place. Now whoever killed Brian is still out there,” said Walter, looking around. “When you didn’t take the fall, they were right there, waiting.”

  “Okay, you’re creeping me out, Walt.” Cole paused. “Or maybe the intent was to throw the authorities off their trail just long enough. Pinning it on me bought them nearly two months.”

  “Why? Buy them time for what?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Alright,” said Walter. “Let’s shut this down. We’re out of light anyway. Tomorrow we’re going to search around to see if the FBI missed anything, like evidence that someone else was camped close by, watching you.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  GLACIER NATIONAL PARK, MONTANA. SEPTEMBER 9.

  COLE QUIETLY UNZIPPED HIS SLEEPING bag, but it was impossible to get out of the compact tent without disturbing Walter. The snoring stopped. “What time is it?”

  “It’s just after five.”

  “You making coffee?”

  “Yeah. You want some?”

  “A little later.”

  Cole stood outside the tent. The temperature had fallen to below zero in the night, and he quickly pulled on his hiking pants, a shirt, and his down jacket. Pain pinched his shoulder as he did. He had to stand still a moment and let the throbbing subside. Hat on his head and gloves on his hands, he went to make coffee. Ten minutes later he was walking to the promenade of stone where he had sat before his life had been turned upside down. He watched the morning dawn and drank his coffee and mulled the puzzle over in his head. No answers came.

  After he’d returned to camp and made a second cup of coffee for himself and brewed one for Walter, the two men discussed their plans over instant oatmeal.

  Walter said, “If you were watching the camp, you’d want to be close enough so that this Blake Foreman character could get word to you, but far enough away that you wouldn’t be detected. I’ve got a couple of places we can look.” They packed their food into a bear-proof container and got ready for the day’s search. By 8:00 AM they were walking south toward the heart of Glacier National Park. They spent three hours canvassing a swath of high alpine that stretched along the southern edge of the plateau, climbing up and down rocky embankments and peering down into the headwaters of the Belly River. By lunchtime they had crawled on hands and knees into dozens of fissures and around scores of rock gardens that might have served as a sleeping pad for an assassin; they had found no evidence of recent human activity.

  “There’s nothing here but pack-rat shit,” Cole said.

  “We can look on the other side this afternoon.” Walter sounded more upbeat. “Down toward the Crypt Lake Trail.”

  First they went to where Blake Foreman had been found dead. They spent an hour examining the scene. There wasn’t much left. Late in the afternoon, they conducted a reconnaissance on the steep north face of the Wilson Range. “You didn’t by any chance bring any more beer with you?” asked Cole, crawling along a ledge high above the goat trail down into Canada.

  “Maybe.” Walter was looking at something with his binoculars.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I see something … a baggie.”

  “Seriously?” Cole took the binoculars. “I’ll be damned. Can you get down there?” The baggie was tucked under a rock on a small ledge a few hundred feet below them.

  “I think it will be easier to get up to it. Let’s walk down the track and I’ll see if I can come at it from below.”

  The trail was the one Walter had taken the morning Brian Marriott had been found dead. They reached a place where the path ran a hundred feet beneath the ledge where the bag was, and Walter dropped his pack. “Can you carry this back up? I’m going to climb up and get that bag and then keep on going.”

  “It could be from some day hiker come up here from Crypt Lake, Walt. It’s a big risk to take.” Cole looked up at the c
rumbling slope.

  “Maybe. Almost nobody comes up this far, though. Most folks who get to Crypt Lake turn around and head back down. A few people go on to climb Mount Boswell.”

  Cole removed his sling and shouldered the pack. It bit into his stitches, but he didn’t complain as his brother started up the steep rock face. He looked like a two-hundred-pound spider as he nimbly picked his way up the limestone. Cole resisted the urge to say something asinine like “Be careful.”

  In a few minutes Walter had made the ledge. “Bingo!” Cole heard him say.

  “What have you got?” Cole yelled up.

  “Boot print, size ten, Vibram. And there’s a place where a stone has been turned over.”

  “You got your camera?”

  “On my iPhone.”

  “Take a pic and we’ll see what we can find. What about the bag?”

  “I got it too. Smells funny.”

  “Like what?”

  “Not sure. I’m going to keep climbing up. Easier than going down without a rope.”

  Now Cole gave in. “Careful, Walt.”

  “Always.”

  When Cole reached the top, he couldn’t see Walter below him. He carefully peered over the edge, careful not to kick a rock off toward the man climbing beneath him.

  “Where the hell are you, Walter?” Cole mumbled.

  A hand fell lightly on Cole’s right shoulder. He started. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  “Easy, partner.” Walter was grinning behind him. “I thought you swore off swearing. Didn’t you promise Sarah?”

  “Do you see my eleven-year-old daughter around here? Do you? No. And that was before someone framed me for murder and then shot me. I think I’ve earned the right to curse.” Walter laughed. “You got the bag?” asked Cole.

  Walter patted his pocket. “And the photo, and this.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out what looked like a piece of pink thread.

  “What is that?”

  “Nylon. From a climbing rope.”

  They walked back to the camp. It was after seven, and the light was failing. “Man, a package of freeze-dried pasta is going to taste so good right now,” Cole said, tripping on a rock. He felt exhausted but exhilarated by their work.

  He almost walked into his brother, who had stopped abruptly. “What—”

  Walter held his hand up to signal silence. He took a few steps toward their camp. It was in ruins. The bear-proof food bin had been opened and its contents smashed on the ground. Freeze-dried pasta and beans were scattered across the rocks. The camp stove had been beaten flat, and the small stainless steel pot was mashed into a twisted mess. The tent was nowhere to be seen.

  “Holy shit,” said Cole, quietly. “A bear?”

  “Not likely,” said Walter, hunching down next to the mess. He picked up the bear-proof bin. “They can’t get into one of these. No opposable thumbs. And where’s the tent?”

  “Someone has been here. They sent us a message. I don’t like what it’s telling me, Walter.”

  “Me neither. Cole, we need to get off this mountain. And right fucking now.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  VANCOUVER, BC. SEPTEMBER 8.

  “WELCOME BACK.” FRANK PESH STOOD and walked across his office to shake Nancy’s hand. “How is Cole?”

  “He’s alright, Frank. Thanks for asking. This whole thing has been a pretty awful experience, but I think we’re coming out the other side of it.”

  “He’s recovered from the gunshot wound?”

  “He’s getting better. Good enough to go hiking with his brother.”

  “What do the RCMP have on the shooter?”

  “Very little. No forensic evidence was recovered. Apparently, the shooter came and went from the City TV building without being detected. Whoever he is, he’s no amateur.”

  “What the hell has Cole gotten himself into this time?”

  “I have no idea, Frank.”

  “You want to find out, don’t you?”

  “It will make a hell of a story. And the Sun could scoop the Herald and the Post with this.”

  “I can’t assign this to you full time. If you can work it between other stories, be my guest.”

  “I think I can do that.”

  “You can get right back into the primary race for the mayor’s office to start with. It looks like the incumbent Don West is on the ropes. There’re three serious challengers for his party nomination, including our old friend Ben Chow.”

  “What about on the other side?”

  “There are six left in the race.”

  “Macy Terry?”

  “Not the front-runner, but in the race and going strong.”

  “Alright. I’ll read the last few weeks of coverage and see what I can come up with.” Nancy walked back through the newsroom to her cubicle. When she got there, someone had parked a bike in front of her desk. There was a stack of papers on her table and a thick pile of pink phone-message slips. She moved the bike, dropped the papers on the floor, and sorted through the message slips. She looked at her watch. It was just after 9:00 AM and she was bored and missing Cole.

  By the middle of the afternoon, Nancy needed a break. She took her laptop with her and walked from the bullpen. It was a warm, bright summer day, and people were enjoying the seawall walk and the grounds around the Vancouver Convention Centre. She saw the billboard for current events: Earth 2020 was under way. Nancy had covered the convention in the past. It was a global event that brought together top minds in business and the nongovernmental sector to problem-solve some of the planet’s toughest challenges.

  Nancy strolled into the Convention Centre, showing her press credentials when asked. When she reached the exhibit hall, her eye caught the word Cool-it! on a giant booth. She walked toward it. The organization’s slogan was “practical solutions for a changing world.”

  Nancy approached a tall blond woman who stood next to a display about climate change. “Nancy Webber, Vancouver Sun.”

  “Jessica Winters.” They shook.

  “Wait a minute,” said Nancy. At the same moment, recognition registered on both women’s faces.

  “You were on the hike.” Nancy pointed at Jessica.

  “And you’re Cole’s … friend.”

  “That’s right.” Nancy felt some relief that Cole had talked about her rather than hitting on the other woman. Maybe you can teach an old dog a new trick, she mused.

  “How is Cole? I can’t believe what’s happened,” said Jessica.

  “He’s alright. It was an in-and-out wound to the shoulder. The scapula was broken, but it’s healing. He’ll set off the metal detector at the airport now. How are you? This whole thing must have been very disturbing.”

  “I didn’t know Brian really well, but we were starting to do more work together. Just a few months before this hike, we started a new program that Cool-it! and AEG were partnering on.”

  “Really?”

  “We were making a big push for alternative energy to power new tar-sands refineries and to be the beneficiary of a royalty tax to be placed on all tar-sands products.”

  “Do you have time for coffee?”

  Jessica looked at her companion. “Mind if I take fifteen?”

  “This might take longer than that,” Nancy said.

  “TELL ME MORE about this plan,” said Nancy. They sat outside the Convention Centre; Burrard Inlet glistened in the afternoon sun. They had cups of coffee in their hands.

  “The idea is that tar-sands profits should be used to do two things,” said Jessica. “First, they should be invested in renewable energy in situ. Right now, one of the biggest complaints we have about the tar sands is that we have to burn four units of cleaner natural-gas energy to make five units of dirty bitumen-based energy. It’s a tremendous waste. And the natural-gas sector can’t keep up with the growth. So we proposed that all new tar-sands operations should have renewable energy in place to run the refineries.

  “The second part was more, shall we say �
� audacious? We wanted the government to tax the profits from the tar sands, heavily, and invest it in the development of a long-term transition from a petroleum-based society to a renewable-energy-based society.”

  “You really think this government would tax the petroleum sector?”

  Jessica laughed. “God no! But they won’t be in office forever. I hope. And we might get them to do little things, like invest in new research and development under the guise of providing money to the R&D sections of the big oil companies.”

  “What about nuclear?”

  “Nuclear is not renewable. And it isn’t clean.”

  “There’s a big debate about that.”

  “There is. But we’d agreed that nuclear wasn’t an option. That was one of the things Brian was looking into before, well …”

  “Before he was killed.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What exactly was he looking into?”

  “The Minister of Natural Resources had just announced that the government was going to consider nuclear as an alternative energy source. With the regulatory hurdles cleared, it paved the way to build a nuclear power plant in the Athabasca delta.”

  “Does Atomic Power Canada have a lock on that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, would the process be open for tender?”

  “Atomic Power Canada is the only player in Canada. It was privatized a few years back, but it still has strong ties with the government.”

  “It might be the only player in Canada, but this is a global market, isn’t it?” asked Nancy. Jessica was silent. “Who else builds nuclear power plants, Jessica?”

  “Well, the United States does. Russia. France. India. And of course China.”

  “And with the exception of Russia and India, those other countries, they have interests in the tar sands, don’t they?”

  “Huge interests. The Americans have pumped billions into bitumen. France’s national energy company recently bought a massive player. And of course China’s national energy company is gobbling up every player that it can.”