Heaven's Keep (35 page)

They left the cabin and walked across the hills to where they’d parked the truck. Quinn was still bound to the grille.

“Didn’t hear any gunshots,” the deputy said. “Guess you didn’t find Nightwind.” He offered a cruel and satisfied smile.

“See if you can find something in his toolbox to cut that twine,” Cork told Parmer. To Quinn he said, “I’m thinking, Dewey, that you’re lucky to be with us at the moment. You’re one of the threads that tie these people to the bodies in that plane. Makes you a liability. With us, you face jail time. With them, it would be a more permanent, and probably painful, resolution.”

Parmer brought a pair of wire clippers from the toolbox and cut Quinn free from the truck.

Cork said, “Now let’s make sure Nightwind can’t fly out of here.”

They drove to the hangar next to the airstrip, and Cork used a pry bar from Quinn’s toolbox to force the door open. Parmer pulled Quinn from the truck, and they all went in together and stood between the Piper Cub and the Beechcraft that Nightwind kept parked there.

“He’s flown bush with this plane,” Parmer said.

“How do you know?”

“He’s modified it. Larger tires for soft fields, a larger engine for short field and heavy loads.”

“What would keep this plane from flying, Hugh?”

“I’d say the simplest thing would be to damage the prop.”

“Sounds good,” Cork said. “Seems to me I saw a small sledgehammer in Dewey’s toolbox. That ought to do the trick.” He went to the truck and came back with the sledge. He ran his hand along the Piper Cub’s single propeller. “Wood,” he said, a little surprised.

“Not really so odd. A wood prop is lighter, runs smoother, and if you get a tip strike, it shatters like a bunch of toothpicks, so there’s less chance of damaging the entire assembly. Pretty simple to replace, too.”

“How do you know so much?”

Parmer shrugged and offered an affable grin. “I know a good deal about a lot of things.”

Cork took a firm stance in front of the Super Cub and swung twice before the prop blade snapped and splintered. Then he did the same to the prop on the Beechcraft. He stepped back, satisfied. “That should keep him grounded.”

“What now?” Parmer said.

“Now we follow the only other thread we have left. Ellyn Grant.”

T
hey arrived in Red Hawk at sunset, under a sky that flamed. They went to the Reservation Business Center, but it was closed for the day. At the Chevron gas station and mini-mart, they asked the man behind the counter if he knew where Grant lived. The man, an Arapaho, fat and tired-looking, shook his head. Cork figured he was lying. On the reservation, on any rez, the rule of thumb when it came to outsiders was to feign ignorance.

In the absence of a better plan, they drove through town. When they came to the little mission of St. Alban, Cork saw activity in the yard beside the church. A number of women were decorating with flowers and streamers, talking and laughing as they worked. Among them strode the priest, tall and white-haired, wearing his clerics and collar, joining in the work and in the gaiety. Cork pulled onto the gravel shoulder of the street and parked. He and Parmer got out. As Cork entered the churchyard, he caught sight of the brass cross above the front door, which was burnished with the reflection of the fire in the sky. Again he recalled the evening months before when he’d spotted the Arapaho kid standing under that same cross as it burned in that same way.

When the two strangers appeared, the women fell silent. The priest, whose back was to the street, turned and watched Cork and Parmer approach.

“Yes?” he said. He wasn’t hostile, but he also wasn’t particularly welcoming.

“Father, I wonder if we might have a word with you?”

“Of course.” The priest turned back to the gathering. “I’ll be right
back. It’s looking so lovely, you know. A fine job.” He glanced at the red evening sky. “Afraid we’ll have to call it quits soon.”

They walked some distance away. The women returned to their preparations, but they did not talk and their eyes followed the men.

“My name is Cork O’Connor. This is Hugh Parmer.”

They shook the priest’s hand, which was firm and callused.

“Frank Grisham,” the priest said. “The Arapaho here call me Father Frank. Are you two gardeners?”

“I beg your pardon?” Cork replied.

“Your fingernails,” the priest said. “They’re packed with dirt. And your clothing looks like you’ve been crawling around in a compost heap.”

“Sorry, Father. We didn’t have a chance to wash up. We’re trying to locate Ellyn Grant.”

In the red light, the priest studied Cork’s face. “You’ve asked that question of someone here already.”

“Yes.”

The priest nodded. “Everyone’s a little suspicious of white people asking about Arapahos. The first assumption is that you’re cops.”

“Don’t worry, we’re not.”

The priest said, “You’re not from around here.”

“Minnesota,” Cork told him. “Hugh’s from Texas.”

“It’s none of my affair, of course, but would you mind telling me why you’re looking for Ellyn?”

“I think she may have information that will help me find my wife.”

The priest waited, as if expecting more explanation from Cork. When he realized there was nothing more coming, he said, “And you think your wife is here?”

“It’s complicated, Father. I really need to speak with Ms. Grant.”

As he considered, the priest ran his gray eyes over every inch of the two strangers. Finally he came to a decision. “She lives there.” He pointed beyond the churchyard toward a modest, one-story house at the end of the next street. A light was on inside. Behind it was an open field. “You say you’re not police, but I come from a family of Boston cops, and, son, you’ve got cop written all over you.”

“Retired,” Cork said.

The priest laughed and shook his head. “That’s like saying ‘retired priest.’ You never really step away.”

“Thank you, Father. I appreciate your help.”

They returned to the truck and to Quinn, who was still tied up inside.

“You think you’ll get anything out of Ellyn Grant, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Quinn said.

“We’ll see.”

Cork made a U-turn on the empty street and headed to the house the priest had indicated. The place was surrounded by a squat picket fence painted green. Parmer shoved his gun into his belt at the small of his back and pulled out his shirttail to cover it. He followed Cork through the gate and to the front door. Cork knocked. A shadow slid across the curtains, which were lit from inside. Cork waited, then knocked again.

The door opened, and Ellyn Grant stood before them with a rifle in one hand and a small glass filled with amber liquid and ice in the other. Cork smelled whiskey.

“Are you going to shoot us or offer us a drink?” he asked.

Grant looked at Quinn, who hunched between Cork and Parmer with his hands bound.

“I ought to shoot you,” she said, though she spoke without rancor.

“We need to talk,” Cork said. “We found the plane you buried.” He glanced at the whiskey she held. “But I’m guessing you already knew that.”

“The plane I buried? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s not what Dewey says.”

“No? What does Dewey say?”

She spoke slowly, and Cork figured the drink in her hand was not her first.

“You really want us to stand here and discuss this in such a public way?”

She thought it over and finally stepped aside. Once they were in, she closed the door and locked it. Cork found himself in a small, comfortable living room decorated with much of the same kind of
Arapaho art he’d seen in Nightwind’s home. Grant led them down a short hallway to the kitchen, which was at the back of the house and was illuminated by the overhead light and by the last of the daylight. A bottle of Canadian Club, more than half empty, sat on the table. A chair was already pulled out, and Grant dropped into it and laid the rifle across the tabletop. Cork drew out a chair for Quinn and shoved him into it. He sat in one of the other chairs, and Parmer took the last.

“My wife wasn’t on the plane with the others, Ellyn,” Cork said. “What happened to her? Where is she?”

“I don’t know anything about your wife.”

“Quinn swears you’re involved up to your eyeballs. He says you knew everything.”

She looked at Quinn and shrugged. “Then it’s my word against his, isn’t it?”

“Who were you expecting, Ellyn?” Cork nodded at the rifle on the table. “Gully and Mike? They’ll be looking to clip those threads that tie anyone to them.”

Grant didn’t respond.

“Even if we have trouble connecting some of the dots, the big picture is crystal clear, Ellyn. There’s no way your Gateway Grand Casino will ever get off the ground.”

“We’ll find another way to bring revenue to the reservation,” she replied, as if unconcerned.

“Maybe the Arapaho will, but you won’t be helping them do it. You and Lame Nightwind are finished here.”

“Lame had nothing to do with anything.”

“We know he flew the charter plane.”

Grant took a long drink of the whiskey.

“I’m willing to bet he did it for you,” Cork said. “I’m willing to bet he did it all for you because he loves you. See, love is something I know about because I lost the woman I love. What did you do for Lame, Ellyn? Did you love him? Or did you just use him so that you could be the great savior of the Arapaho?”

Grant closed her eyes against his words, and a softness came into her face that might have been the effect of the alcohol. She was quiet
for a long time. Beyond the kitchen windows daylight continued to fade.

“Love,” she finally said and smiled. “Of all the Great Creator’s great creations, it must be the most sacred and shapeless.” She opened her eyes and looked dreamily at Cork. “I love Lame Nightwind, oh yes. And I love the Arapaho. And I love this country, the Owl Creek Reservation, even though to the eyes of a
nahita
it probably looks like a wasteland. I love the vision I had for my people. And I’m just drunk enough, Cork O’Connor, to say that in my way I love you because you’ve shown me something important. You’re right. There won’t be any Gateway Grand Casino, no easy way out for the Owl Creek Arapaho, but I’ve come to understand that maybe it’s for the best. Maybe Edgar was right. Trading on the weakness of others makes us weak as well. The Arapaho have always been a strong people. I lost my faith in our strength. We have endured much. And we have much yet to endure. But endure we will.” She lifted her glass in a toast and drank again.

“Ellyn, what happened to my wife?”

She considered him and shook her head with drunken sympathy. “You love her, don’t you? Lucky man. Lucky woman.” She stared out the kitchen window at the darkening sky. “That white door your son saw? She’s behind it.”

“What do you mean? What white door? Where?”

Grant took a long, deep breath, but before she answered, the window glass shattered and her head flew back as if she’d been kicked in the face and her chair tipped over and she tumbled to the floor. The next shot hit Dewey Quinn, caught him in the right shoulder and spun him out of his chair and onto the kitchen floor. Parmer lurched from his seat and hugged the floor. Cork grabbed the rifle from the table. It was a Marlin carbine, and he worked the lever to be sure there was a round in the chamber. He crawled to the wall next to the shattered window.

“Kill the light,” he told Parmer.

Parmer scrambled across the floor, hit the wall switch, and the kitchen went dark. Cork and his companion cautiously peered through the window. Two figures were racing away across the field behind
Grant’s home. Cork leaped to the back door, fumbled with the lock, finally flung the door open, and tore outside. He caught sight of the two men again just as they ran into a line of trees that followed a stream on the far side of the field. Headlights came on, and a black Jeep Cherokee sped away. Cork knelt, lifted the rifle to his shoulder, and pulled off four rounds. Near the bridge at the other end of the field, the Cherokee swung onto the paved road and rocketed away.

Cork ran back to the house and found Parmer on his knees next to Ellyn Grant. There was a hole the size of a nickel above her left eye and beneath her head a rapidly spreading pool of blood.

Quinn lay on his back, groaning, the clothing over his right shoulder a wet mess of red.

A furious pounding came from the front door. “Open up!”

Cork went quickly to the living room, unlocked the door, and swung it wide.

Andrew No Voice stood there, weapon drawn. At his back were a number of Arapaho, and among them stood the tall, white-haired priest. “Put your gun down! Do it now!” No Voice ordered.

Cork laid his firearm on the floor.

S
heriff Kosmo arrived by helicopter, courtesy of Jon Rude. Through the window of No Voice’s office, Cork watched the chopper land in the gravel parking area. The headquarters of the tribal police was a long, narrow one-story cinder-block construction at the southern edge of Red Hawk. It was separated from the school grounds by a field of irrigated alfalfa. As soon as the helicopter touched down, Kosmo leaped out and headed for the headquarters’s door. No Voice didn’t get up when Kosmo walked in. He just nodded toward Cork and Parmer and said, “All yours, Jim.”

Kosmo stood with his beefy arms crossed, staring down at the two seated men. “You talk to ’em?”

“Yeah,” No Voice said.

“Don’t suppose you wrung a lock-solid confession out of ’em.”

“They were cooperative. And they didn’t do it.”

“How do you know?”

“Earl Vixen, next house up the street from Ellyn’s, he was out in the yard with Kong, that Chihuahua of his, waiting for his dog to take a crap. Corroborated O’Connor’s account of the men firing from the field out back. It took a while for Earl to stroll over here. Told me he didn’t say anything to anybody cuz he was concerned someone might come looking for him, too. He’s still here. I got him in a back room working on an official statement. Bottom line is that at the moment a lot of folks in Red Hawk are under the impression these two killed Ellyn. I’ve had some pretty irate calls already. I didn’t want to turn them loose until I was sure they had safe passage to Hot Springs.”