The window of the SUV was still open, and he watched as the big man who had given him a beating in Casper started to climb out. Round two?
WALTER HELD THE shotgun in his hands. He waited. He didn’t flinch when he heard glass breaking in the front veranda and then the door quietly opening. He slipped the safety off on the shotgun. He pulled the pistol from his holster, slipped the safety off, and wordlessly handed the gun to Nancy. He motioned for her to hide behind the center island in the big country kitchen. He moved toward the veranda.
COLE STEPPED OUT of the pickup and watched the big man stumble onto the road. He was bent over, spitting blood onto the gravel. Cole wouldn’t have the advantage for long, so he ran as fast as his body would permit, and when he closed on the man, he kicked him as hard as he could in the face. The man’s head snapped back, an arc of blood following him backward as he collapsed on the ground.
That’s when the second man started to climb out of the driver’s-side window.
WALTER SLOWLY WALKED toward the living room. He held the shotgun pointed toward the floor, in the ready stance, and waited by the door to the basement. He heard the floorboards in the front hall creak. He drew in a deep breath.
The sound of the back door opening behind him was barely audible over the blood coursing in his ears. He risked a glance toward Nancy in the kitchen. She was crouched, the compact pistol in her hands, waiting.
COLE CHARGED AT the man climbing out of the truck. He had a pistol in his hand as he pulled himself out of the broken window, but Cole was on him quickly. The man fired, the shot veering wide. Cole grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him the rest of the way out of the SUV. He wrapped both of his hands around the man’s gun hand and smashed it against the undercarriage of the vehicle. The pistol fell into the dirt at their feet.
Cole flipped the man over his shoulder, but doing so sent a spasm of pain through his body. He dropped to one knee, his head spinning with the agony. His attacker composed himself and threw a series of neat jabs into Cole’s face, connecting with his eyes, nose, and chin. Cole lunged forward and tackled the man around the waist, and they both ended up on the ground. They rolled twice, both men punching at each other but neither landing a knockout blow. The man ended up on top of Cole. He put his hands around Cole’s throat and started to squeeze. Cole felt himself panic; his face grew dark red, and he grabbed frantically at his attacker.
It wouldn’t take much to break the hyoid bone, and strangulation would happen quickly after that. Cole tried to calm himself. He crossed his right arm over his attacker’s arms and with his strong legs pushed up and twisted. He and Denman had practiced this very move with Sarah at Trout Lake in Vancouver many times. The force of Cole’s body threw the attacker to the side, and Cole landed a heavy blow with his elbow to the man’s face, breaking his nose. When the man continued to struggle to his feet, Cole hit him again, harder and with his fist. The attacker collapsed into the dirt.
Breathing hard and in pain, Cole ran to Perry Gilbert’s car and peered inside. Perry’s head slumped forward against his chest. There was a lot of blood on his face and down his chest. Cole looked at Perry’s passenger; the woman was also unconscious. A child cried loudly in the back seat, the five-point harness of her child seat having saved her from serious harm. Cole felt for a pulse, first Perry’s and then his girlfriend’s. He was panicked, and his heart was racing. He couldn’t tell if either of them was alive.
And then he heard the shotgun blast from the Blackwater Ranch.
WALTER WAITED. HE heard the floor creak again, and he watched out of the corner of his eye for the shape of a man at the back door. None appeared there. Then he saw movement in the hall mirror. Walter crouched down very slowly.
A man stepped around the corner, holding a pistol with both hands. He saw Walter too late. Walter pulled the trigger of the shotgun, and the round caught the man in the knees, taking his legs out from under him and sending him crashing to the floor. Walter heard Sarah scream. Heavy footsteps sounded by the back door and then Walter heard a pistol bark, once, twice, three times.
COLE STOOD FOOLISHLY in the road for a minute, blood dripping from his chin and nose. He reached down and picked up the black pistol and flipped the safety on. He looked at Perry once more. He was conscious now and looking around in a daze. Cole went to him. “Are you okay?”
“I think so,” he said over the child’s crying. Perry looked at the woman in the passenger seat, who had also come to. She blinked and twisted awkwardly in her seat to quiet her child.
That’s when Cole heard the pop, pop, pop of a pistol.
He ran for the truck. The front end was missing both its grillwork and bumper. Walter would never let him drive it again. He got in and gunned the Ford for the ditch. He took it sideways, angling down and then up the steep embankment, being careful not to rev the engine too high and spin the tires in the soft dirt. He made the road and then floored the accelerator, racing toward the ranch.
NANCY CROUCHED BEHIND the kitchen island. She heard the back door open. She heard Walter’s shotgun explode and Sarah scream downstairs. She peeked over the kitchen island. A man with a pistol held before him in a two-handed grip was coming around the corner from the back room. She steadied her hands on the counter and fired three times. The shots tore into the wood paneling of the back hall. The intruder fired twice; the rounds hit the island counter, but Nancy continued to pull the trigger. Over the din she heard a truck approaching at high speed.
THE HOUSE AND barn came into view, and Cole saw a man running from the back door. It was the dark-haired man from the bar in Casper—the one he had kicked in the groin. He kept his foot on the gas and raced toward him. The man raised a pistol and fired six quick shots at the truck. One hit the windshield on the passenger side, and that was enough to force Cole to duck. The truck missed the shooter by a few feet, and Cole hit the brake before the Ford drove into the remnants of his mother’s kitchen garden. More shots, and the back window of the truck exploded. Cole stayed on the bench seat. He took the pistol from the seat beside him and thumbed the safety off.
Walter exploded out the back door. He fired twice at the shooter, both shots missing by just a few inches. The attacker ran for the barn. Walter fired again, the pellets leaving an oval pattern on the side of the barn. The attacker made it to the large double doors and disappeared inside.
“Everybody alright?” Cole asked, slipping out of the truck. He held his pistol before him.
“Fine. Mom and Sarah are in the basement. Nancy is in the house. She’s armed. You?”
“RCMP are on their way. Five minutes behind me.”
“What do you want to do?” Walter was breathing hard. He and Cole were behind his wreck of a truck, watching the barn.
“Cops will come up the main road. They’ll see Perry—their car was hit, but they’re okay. We need to sit on this guy.”
Walter nodded. “I’ll head around the side to make sure he doesn’t go down into the horse paddock and get out that way. You stay here. Just wait. I’ll watch the back.”
They both ran for the barn, Walter heading around the fence to cover the back, and Cole advancing on the wide front doors. The pistol felt heavy in his hand. When he reached the doors, he took up a position beside them and waited.
He thought he heard a helicopter somewhere in the distance. He heard police sirens. Just another minute, he thought. Just another minute.
Then the door opened. “Walt?” Cole yelled. But it wasn’t Walter. The gunman fired twice into the dirt near Cole’s feet. Cole pulled the trigger and kept pulling the trigger. The gunman didn’t emerge. The door splintered from the gunfire. Cole couldn’t tell if any of the ten or so shots he’d fired had found their mark.
He heard his brother. “Cole, you alright?” He sounded panicked.
“Fine. Just doing the OK Corral thing over here.” Cole kept the pistol leveled at the door. He waited for what seemed like an eternity, the pistol held out before him, his knuckles growi
ng white. Then he heard shots. Two pistol shots and the blast of Walter’s shotgun.
“Walter?” Cole yelled. Nobody responded. “Walt?” Nothing. He moved toward the doors of the barn. A shaft of light fell across the interior of the barn. “Walter? You okay?” he yelled, but he heard nothing.
Cole stepped into the doorway, sweeping the pistol around the dark space. The barn was shadowy and filled with hay dust. Cole could barely discern the punching bag hanging from the rafters. He thought he saw movement there. He fired, and the punching bag spit stuffing. He stepped inside, and the door swung closed after him. He was hit from behind.
Cole fell to the floor, his pistol clattering on the thick boards. He rolled over quickly, his legs up in a defensive position, and deflected a quick kick. His assailant advanced on him, kicking, but Cole was able to absorb the blows with his legs as he scrambled toward the center of the barn. Cole lashed out and tripped his attacker so that they lay side by side on the floor. In the dim light Cole could see the man was wounded. A dark stain marred the side of his head, and it looked as if one of Walter’s blasts from the shotgun had taken the man’s ear off. Cole punched him there, and although he landed a solid blow, the man didn’t cry out. He merely rolled back to try to avoid another punch.
Cole struggled to his feet as his attacker crawled backward. The man was inching toward Cole’s pistol. Another second and he’d have it in his hands.
Cole dove. He landed on his right side, ribs, shoulder, his entire torso exploding with agony, but he reached the pistol first and pointed it at the man. The two men were in the center of the barn, the punching bag swinging above their heads like a giant pendulum ticking down the moments of their lives. The attacker lunged and Cole pulled the trigger.
“RCMP!” HE HEARD over a loudspeaker. “Put down your weapons. Come out of the barn.”
“Friendly!” Cole heard Walter yell, to his great relief. “One more friendly in the barn.” That would be him, thought Cole, still holding the pistol.
Heavy footsteps rushed the door of the barn. Light spilled across the room. “RCMP. Drop your weapon.”
Cole did as he was told. He held his hands in the air from his prone position. “Friendly,” he said quietly. A man in a black ERT uniform kicked Cole’s gun away as he looked at the unmoving man on the floor. He said into his headset radio: “We’ve got a suspect down here. Dead. We’re clear.” He picked up Cole’s weapon and tucked it into a pocket of his body armor, then helped Cole to his feet. He checked him for weapons and then asked him if he was okay. “Is there someone at the accident site?” asked Cole.
“Yes, sir.”
“And my brother? Walter?”
“Everyone is safe,” said the cop.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” said Cole.
FIFTY-FIVE
CHEYENNE, WYOMING. OCTOBER 9.
SENATOR LESTER THOMPSON SAT ON the porch of his ranch house twenty miles west of Cheyenne, the rolling hills ablaze with the reds and oranges of autumn. He sipped a glass of iced tea. His telephone rang, and he answered it. “Yeah?” Thompson listened a moment and then hung up.
Two dead, two in custody. He thought again about the precautions that had been taken and felt certain that he was safe. Business was safe. The deal on the Blackfeet Reservation would move forward. It would take more time with the media spotlight trained on that godforsaken corner of the earth, but it would happen. People were desperate.
He thought of his son, Tad, back from Afghanistan these few months and already playing such an important role in the company. Tad had been sent to Central America after the Glacier Park work had been done. There was important infrastructure to build there, and he had the skills to do it. There, Tad could resume operating under the family name, and in a year, maybe two, the groundwork would be in place for a major undertaking. In the meantime, Lester would wait. Lester Thompson was a patient man.
He sipped his iced tea and thought about Derek McGrath, his son’s best friend, former platoon sergeant, and business partner. Derek was a good soldier. Lester would take care of his family now that Derek had been discharged with honor. Family, above all else, was important in life. Lester knew this and used it to his advantage every chance he got. He had with Cole Blackwater. Blackwater was a loose end, and in time, all loose ends would have to be tied up. Permanently. There would be time. Lester Thompson was a patient man.
FIFTY-SIX
VANCOUVER, BC. NOVEMBER 11.
FRIDAY NIGHT, THE CAMBIE HOTEL. Rain pelted the sidewalk. Cole Blackwater hurried from his office at the Dominion Building and stepped into the raucous bar. He scanned the premises and found Dusty Stevens, Martin Middlemarch, and Denman Scott sharing a long table with a group of college kids.
“Jesus Christ,” said Dusty, looking at Cole over his glasses when Cole had joined them. “It’s been”—he counted on his stubby fingers—“five months since I saw you! How the hell are you?”
“I’m alright.”
Dusty looked him up and down. Cole was thinner, his hair gray at the temples, his face red with fresh scars. “You look like hell. At least no striped pyjamas—that’s good.”
“I came pretty close.” Cole ordered a Kick Ass from the server.
“How is the shoulder?” asked Martin.
“Just another in a long list of injuries. The wet weather makes it ache.”
Denman was smiling at Cole. “What are you grinning at?” Cole asked.
“Nothing. It’s just good to see you. I’m sorry I couldn’t have been around more.”
“I knew you were in my corner.”
“How’s Nancy?”
“Ask her yourself. She’ll be here in a few minutes.” Cole looked at his watch.
“And your family?”
“Shaken up. I think Mom wants to sell the ranch, but Walter won’t let her.”
“What about your other lawyer? Perry?” asked Denman.
“He and his girlfriend spent a week at Foothills General in Calgary. But they’re okay. Her daughter was fine. Just a few bruises. You know, if they hadn’t been there, that SUV would have reached the ranch and Walter and Nancy wouldn’t have had a chance.”
“Did the RCMP find out who these guys were?”
Cole laughed. He almost spit his beer out. “Can you believe that all four of them had no criminal record? Nothing. No criminal history, no military history. These guys didn’t exist.”
“Was the FBI able to tie them to the attack in Casper?”
“They have some grainy surveillance video from the parking lot at my hotel where I was beaten up. Nothing conclusive. And High Country Energy has no connection either. The feds got a warrant for records of employment. Turned up nothing. Lester Thompson skates.”
“Listen to you, a regular Dick Tracy,” said Dusty.
Cole drank his beer. “I just need to get back in the game now. It’s been six months since I had a paying client. If Nancy wasn’t paying my child support and rent, I’d be on the streets.”
“I’d never let that happen,” said Denman.
“Thanks, Denny. I just don’t know how employable I am anymore.”
“I wanted to talk with you about that, Cole.” Denman’s face became serious.
“Look, I appreciate it, Denny, but I don’t think working for Priority Legal would be my thing.”
“No? How about working for the next mayor of Vancouver?”
“What?”
“Macy Terry is going to win the nomination. She’s building her team. She needs someone who can help her with her story. Work the spin on things. You’re good, Cole. I’ve told her all about you.”
“All?”
“Yes, all.”
“And she still wants me to help?”
“Yup. Not on camera, mind you. Don’t want to scare the voters. But behind the scenes. A strategist.”
“I need to think about it. Talk it over with Nancy. But it’s a great offer.”
“The election is eleven months away. We’ve got
a lot of work to do. Ben Chow is gaining momentum, despite the debacle last year with the Lucky Strike Hotel, but we can beat him.”
“We.”
“Damn right.”
“I need to make one more trip to Montana before I decide, but it sounds good, Denny.”
“Cole, there is one more thing.”
“What?”
“Well, there’s an issue that is going to get entangled in the election. Something that’s going to hit the media soon.”
“What is it, Denny?”
“Marcia Lane from the Missing Persons Task Force called me today and told me that her officers have found three women who went missing in the Downtown Eastside recently. They were prostitutes, Cole. Young Asian illegals who had just arrived in Canada, we think. They had been murdered.”
EPILOGUE
THE WIND BLEW WITHOUT MERCY. Overhead, a Chinook arch stretched across the sky, extending from the Canadian border in the north to where the jagged edge of the Rocky Mountain Front disappeared on the southern horizon. Cole had on his down coat and a wool cap pulled down over his ears. Walter Blackwater and Joe Firstlight stood next to him. A man in a Montana Fish, Wildlife and Parks uniform held a radio antenna in his hands. He had a set of headphones on over his wool cap.
“Have you got him?” asked Walter.
“Yeah. Third day in a row. He’s on the ridge up above the creek,” the officer said.
“Does that mean he’s in his den?” asked Cole.
“Most likely. This guy was a hell of a traveler. After you chased him off, Walter, he went over the Continental Divide, up the north fork of the Flathead, and over the Divide again into Waterton Lakes, and then he made his way right down the front of the mountain and back here. It was like he was going to visit you guys up there.”
“Well, one face-to-face was enough. Is Fish and Wildlife going to put him down?” asked Walter.
“Not now. He’s stayed away from people. If we had got him right away, he’d be a goner. But with the radio collar on him, we’ll just watch him real close.”
The Glacier Gallows Page 25
