Heaven's Keep

  “Should we ask him to eat with us?” Stephen said.

  “He’s got a date, Stephen.”

  “Please.”

  “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to ask. You want to deliver the invitation?”

  “Sure,” he said with surprising eagerness.

  Cork watched his son cross the restaurant with a long, awkward gait and approach Quinn. The deputy turned to him and smiled. He introduced Stephen to the woman, who shook his hand delicately. Stephen spoke. Quinn looked toward Cork and carried on a brief discussion with the woman. She nodded, picked up the glass of white wine the bartender had given her, slid from her stool, and followed Stephen and Quinn to the table. Cork stood up.

  “Stephen made us an offer we couldn’t refuse,” Quinn said. “Cork, this is my wife, Angie. Angie, Cork O’Connor.”

  She was younger than her husband. She had on a red dress that slid easily along the intriguing contours of her body. She wore gold earrings and a gold necklace. She smelled of a good, subtle perfume. Her hand, when she gave it to Cork in greeting, was soft and felt uncomfortably intimate in his.

  To Cork’s great surprise, his son pulled the chair out for her to sit. Like so much else about Stephen, whenever Cork saw him put into practice what had been drilled into him at home, he was still a bit amazed. Angie purred him a thank-you.

  The waitress was there almost immediately. “Need a menu, Dewey?”

  “We’ve already ordered,” Cork told Quinn.

  “Just give me the rib eye, rare, Estelle. And a baked potato, the works.”

  “Will do, honey. And you, Angie?”

  “I’ll have the chicken Caesar.”

  “And put that on our check,” Cork said.

  “No,” Quinn objected.

  “Please,” Cork said. “A small way to say thank you, and, besides, I have an ulterior motive. I’m going to pump you for information.”

  “All right,” Quinn said. “Thanks.”

  “It’s nothing. We appreciate your kindness, right from the beginning.”

  “Kindness?” Quinn lifted the beer he’d brought from the bar and sipped. “You were sheriff of Tamarack County for quite a while. You dealt with your share of persons missing in those great North Woods, I’ll bet.”

  “Sure.”

  “And weren’t you always as considerate as you could be to the families involved? That’s just being professional.”

  “It’s different on this side of the situation, Dewey. It feels like a great kindness.”

  “Well, you’re welcome.” He lifted his bottle to Cork and Stephen in a kind of salute.

  Angie drank from her wine and glanced around the place, as if restless or bored. Cork was sorry she had to be dragged down by what weighed on him and Stephen and, to a degree, her husband.

  “Married long?” he asked her.

  “Two years,” she replied, smiling brightly. Flecks of her lipstick spotted her teeth, and Cork thought of a vampire or an animal feeding. “Dewey swept me off my feet.” It sounded like a line she’d delivered often.

  “We met in Kansas City, when I was there for a law enforcement conference,” Quinn said. “Whirlwind romance.”

  “Big city,” Cork said. “What do you think of Hot Springs?”

  “It’s a stop on the way,” she said.

  “Oh? To where?”

  She put her hand on her husband’s arm. “Dewey is a man with a future.”

  “FBI,” Quinn said. “I’m thinking of putting in an application. I’m in charge of major crime investigations in Owl Creek County, and so I’ve got a lot of experience. But unless I decide to run for sheriff someday, I’ve pretty much hit the ceiling here.”

  “Lots of opportunity with the Bureau, I imagine. Good luck to you.” Cork turned his beer slowly and studied the Fat Tire label. “Third day of the search. What now?”

  “CAP keeps flying the grids southeast of where the plane dropped off radar. If they don’t find anything, they start looking northwest, just in case the pilot decided to try to punch through the storm. Commander Nickleson believes that’s a long shot. It’s all air search now, but our ground S and R crews are ready to go as soon as we have an idea where to send them.”

  “It’s . . . a big place,” Cork said cautiously.

  Stephen leaped in. “But we’re finally able to look for Mom, and that’s a really good thing.”

  “You bet it is,” Quinn said.

  Estelle brought their food and another round of drinks. As they ate, Quinn talked about Wyoming, or that part of Wyoming that lay within the far-flung boundaries of Owl Creek County. A diverse landscape, he said, with a diverse population. There were stark, beautiful badlands to the east, lovely pastoral country along the Bighorn, and a wide strip that was nearly desert that led up to the foothills of the Rockies. Finally there were the mountains themselves, all rugged wilderness.

  “The Arapaho, the Crow, the Shoshone, they all fought over this area for a long time,” he said, cutting into the last of his steak. “In the end, they pretty much lost everything to the white man. All that’s left to the Arapaho is the Owl Creek Reservation, which is huge, but much of it not really suitable for human beings.”

  Cork said, “Jon Rude indicated there might be gas or oil out there.”

  “A lot of speculation about that, but so far the Arapaho have resisted pressure to let anyone look for it. They’re afraid the land will be ruined. Hell, if you look at what’s happened to a lot of the beautiful areas in this state that have mineral reserves, it’s easy to see why they’re concerned.”

  “I understand,” Cork said.

  “You’re part Indian, right?” he asked.

  “One-quarter Ojibwe.”

  Stephen’s attention had turned from the talk at the table. “Hey, that’s the woman we saw on CNN,” he said, pointing toward the door that led to the casino.

  Cork recognized the woman, too. The last time he’d seen her she was standing in front of the community center on the reservation, de-crying the work of the Owl Creek County Sheriff’s Department in the search for the missing plane.

  “Ellyn Grant,” Quinn said, clearly not thrilled.

  “Her husband was a passenger on the plane,” Cork said.

  “He’s the tribal chairman, and she heads up OCRE.”

  “Ocher? Like the color?”

  “It’s an acronym. Stands for Owl Creek Reservation Enterprises. The business arm of the rez. Oh crap, here she comes.”

  Ellyn Grant had stopped at the bar, where the bartender nodded toward Dewey Quinn. Now Grant wove her way among the tables and approached the deputy. In stature, there was nothing remarkable about her. She stood a few inches over five feet. She had dark brown hair done in a long braid, and a narrow face that didn’t seem to have a lot of the physical look of an American Indian. She wore a calf-length jean skirt with a fringe, a brown leather vest over a blue cotton shirt, and elegant-looking cowboy boots. Her wrists were banded in silver set with turquoise, and large silver hoops dangled from the lobes of her ears. In person, she appeared less imposing than she had on CNN.

  “Hello, Dewey,” she said when she reached the table.

  “Ellyn.”

  “I don’t want to interrupt your evening, just wondering how your search is going.”

  “Not bad. And yours?”

  “With only one plane, it’s hard to cover much ground.”

  “If you were conducting the search in a logical area, maybe you’d have more help.”

  The woman eyed Cork and Stephen, but her face gave away nothing. Finally she looked at Mrs. Quinn. “Angie.”

  “Ellyn.”

  Dewey Quinn said, “This is Cork O’Connor and his son, Stephen. Cork’s wife is one of the passengers on the plane with your husband.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said to Cork, rather formally.

  “Likewise.”

  She thought a moment. “She was the attorney, right?”

  “Is the attorney,” Cork said.

&n
bsp; “Of course.”

  Stephen said, “We saw you on CNN the day before yesterday. You said they were searching in the wrong place for the plane.”

  She crossed her arms and shot the deputy a cold glance. “That’s right, Stephen. I’ve been trying to convince Quinn and his boss to have some of the planes give us a hand looking in the right place.”

  “You said something about a vision,” Stephen went on.

  “Will Pope’s vision.”

  Quinn broke in. “Says he saw an eagle come out of the sky and fly into an oblong box that was covered with a white blanket. One place that might fit the description is Baby’s Cradle. It’s a formation in the Teton Wilderness way to the southwest of where the plane dropped off radar.” He raised his eyes to Grant. “Until we’ve exhausted the better possibilities, you’re on your own out there, Ellyn.”

  “Better? Because some people—white people—drinking and driving their snowmobiles claim to have heard a plane?”

  “It’s a little more reliable lead than the vision of Will Pope.”

  “I had a vision,” Stephen said.

  Everyone looked at Stephen.

  “What kind of vision?” Grant asked.

  “I saw a white door in a yellow room. My mother went through the door and it closed behind her and I couldn’t open it.”

  “Well, there you are,” Grant said.

  “There you are where?” Quinn said.

  “Giant’s Gate. The doorway to Baby’s Cradle and Sleeping Baby Lake.”

  “Really?” Stephen appeared to have shed all his weariness, and his body fairly vibrated.

  Grant turned her dark, cold eyes on Quinn. “Two visions to your what, Dewey? Blind logic? You go right ahead and do whatever you people need to do. We’ll keep flying over Baby’s Cradle. Nice to meet you, Stephen. Cork.” She turned and walked away.

  Stephen watched her go. “Could she be right?”

  Cork looked to Quinn. “What do you think, Dewey?”

  “Baby’s Cradle isn’t anywhere near any of the flight paths the plane might have followed. I suppose if there was instrument failure, Baby’s Cradle might be a remote possibility. But I can’t justify pulling planes off the search of the other vectors based on . . .” He paused.

  “Visions,” Stephen finished for him.

  Quinn looked at him. “Yes.”

  Stephen sat back, sullen, and said nothing more.

  “Stephen, Will Pope is not the most reliable man you’ll ever meet. He has a fondness for alcohol.”

  “So? That doesn’t mean he can’t receive visions.”

  “No, but it certainly makes me cautious about what he says.”

  “You mean you don’t believe him. Have you talked to him?”

  “No.”

  “Well there you are.”

  Quinn’s wife looked bored out of her mind. Cork said, “We’re pretty tired. We’ve got another long day ahead of us tomorrow. Stephen and I are going to call it a night.”

  For a moment, Quinn looked as if he was about to say something more to Stephen, but he didn’t. His wife looked as if she’d just been released from prison. She quickly folded her napkin, slid her chair back, and stood up. “Well, thanks for dinner. Dewey, it’s still early. Let’s gamble a little.”

  Quinn joined her, and she took his arm. “Cork, you’re heading out with Rude again tomorrow, so I’ll be in touch.” He shook Cork’s hand. “Good night, Stephen.”

  Stephen stared at his empty plate. “Yeah, ’night.”

  The couple walked away. As they headed toward the casino, Quinn slipped his arm around his wife’s inviting waist.

  After they were gone, Cork said, “If I were Dewey, I’d be making the same call, Stephen.”

  “You didn’t see what I saw.”

  “No. But what you saw is open to interpretation, and how can you be sure this Giant’s Gate is it?”

  “Because from what Ms. Grant said it matches my vision.”

  “Stephen, there are probably lots of scenarios that would match your vision.”

  “Yeah? What about this Will Pope guy? What about his vision?”

  “I don’t know him so I can’t answer that.”

  “Maybe we ought to get to know him. Maybe he’s like Henry Meloux.”

  They talked more as they drove back to the hotel. Stephen was absolutely convinced now that looking east of the mountains was wrong. At the hotel, they carefully studied the map they’d bought at the airport in Cody, and Cork pointed out how far away from any reasonable flight pattern the lake lay. But the more they discussed the issue, the more adamant Stephen became.

  “There’s a door somewhere,” Stephen said, “and Mom’s behind it. All we have to do is find the door.”

  Finally Cork suggested a compromise. They would fly with Rude the next day and get his take on Baby’s Cradle. Because he was part Arapaho, he might also have a reliable opinion about Will Pope. After they returned, they would find Pope for themselves and see what he had to say.

  They got ready for bed and watched a little television, and in no time at all Stephen was sleeping. Cork lay staring at the ceiling. His mind was too crowded. He finally got up, put on his robe and slippers, dropped the room key card into his pocket, and went outside. He walked down the stairs to the courtyard, which was misty from the vapors of the pool. The night was cold and he knew he couldn’t stay out long, but the air felt refreshing and what he could see of the sky was full of stars. He thought about Jo somewhere, staring up at that same sky—cold, lost, scared, maybe injured. He tried to shake off that image.

  Against the black of the sky rose the nearer black of the Owl Creek Mountains. Beyond them, beyond the wide, desolate stretch of the reservation, lay more mountains, higher mountains. This was different country from home. This was a harsh, difficult place, and he hated it. Hated the way all the land rose up like walls. Hated how all that emptiness could so easily swallow a plane and its passengers. Hated that it seemed to be a land with no heart.

  Henry Meloux would argue with him, he knew. Meloux would say that there was no part of Grandmother Earth that was without heart, without spirit. The fault lay not with the land but with Cork’s expectations, with his own wounded spirit. Listen to the land, Meloux would probably advise. The land will reveal its heart. The land will tell you its truth.

  But not that night. That night Cork heard only the chill wind that came off the high country in a long, empty sigh.

  TWELVE

  Day Five, Missing 94 Hours

  Today we fly to Casper,” Jon Rude said as they climbed into the chopper. “A couple hundred feet above ground the whole way. Bird’seye view of every gulch and draw and butte from Meeteetse to the North Platte. How does that sound?” He winked at Stephen.

  Stephen said, “Could we fly over Baby’s Cradle?”

  “Baby’s Cradle?” Rude slipped his flight helmet on and began flipping switches. “You’ve been listening to Will Pope.”

  “Ellyn Grant,” Cork said. “We ran into her at the Antelope Grill last night.”

  “Ellyn.” Rude nodded. “Piece of work there.” The rotors began their sweep. “Buckle in, gentlemen.”

  “What about Baby’s Cradle?” Stephen said.

  Rude scanned the area around the chopper, then glanced at Stephen. “See, the thing about old Will Pope’s visions is that sometimes they’re less the result of some spiritual visitation than they are of alcohol.”

  “Ms. Grant seems to think this one is real.”

  “Hell, maybe it is,” Rude allowed.

  “So what about Baby’s Cradle?”

  “You want my advice?”

  “Yes,” Stephen said.

  “I think we ought to stick with the flight plan for today. I want to fly low and slow. If there’s anything sticking out of some snowdrift on those high plains, I want to find it.”

  “What about the search of the mountains?” Cork asked.

  “There are ten aircraft working the mountains. I talked w
ith Dewey Quinn this morning, and he spoke with Commander Nickleson in Cody. We agreed that a low-level flight over the area between the Absarokas and Casper is worth a shot. If that plane tried to limp back to the airport and had to come down, it could be lying in a deep wash somewhere, buried in snow. That’s what we call the Red Wall country. It’s rough and it’s empty. I’d rest easier knowing we took a good look at it. Wouldn’t you, Stephen?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “And if we come up empty-handed, I’ll take you to Will Pope myself and make the introductions.”

  “You know him?”

  “I’m part Arapaho. I know everyone on the rez.”

  “All right.”

  “Okay, buckos. As Superman used to say, ‘Up, up, and away.’ ”

  They flew toward Meeteetse, a tiny western town where, Rude told them, Butch Cassidy had once resided. From there they turned southeast along the corridor that the plane, if it had indeed flown over the snowmobilers, would have followed back to Casper. They spoke little, and their eyes were glued to the ground below. Once they’d flown beyond the relatively gentle basin of the Bighorn, the land took on the feel of Armageddon, of upheaval and warring elements, a place where gods had battled and it was the earth that had suffered most. Long ridges had been chopped in half, leaving ragged cliffs the color of blood. In other places, the earth had been cut into deep arroyos or scraped to clean, hard flats. It appeared to be an area where nothing, human or otherwise, could possibly survive.

  “Hole-in-the-wall country,” Rude said. “This whole stretch is part of what used to be called the Outlaw Trail. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Jesse James, just about every other desperado of that period was reputed to have hid out here at one time or another.”

  They reached the outskirts of Casper without spotting anything hopeful, and Rude turned back. He altered course so that on the return trip they’d fly over different country. The land below them was the same, however, just as empty of hope.