“Got stuck out here in a blizzard once,” Rude said. “Not much more than a kid then. Tried to race a storm to Casper. Thought I was immortal. Wind came up, snow began blowing like a son of a bitch, next thing I know I’m way off the road, up to my windshield in a big drift. Got out to check the situation and suddenly I’m in a whiteout. Up, down, left, right, didn’t mean anything. Confused as hell. Finally stumbled against my car and crawled inside to wait it out. Took a day and a half for the whole thing to blow over. By then, the snow was so deep, it completely covered my old Crown Victoria. Had me a couple of Snickers bars that I nibbled on and about a gallon of Mountain Dew. When the sun came back, I dug my way out, and a few hours later a plow came along. Was pretty hairy there for a while.”
“Why’d you do it?” Stephen asked. He never stopped scouring the landscape below them, even when he was part of the conversation.
“Best reason in the world for a man to do stupid things, Stephen. A girl. She lived in Casper and I was desperately in love with her. Still am, for that matter. She’s my wife.”
They reached the airstrip at Hot Springs a little after 3:00 P.M. Rude radioed in and checked the status of the rest of the search effort. Through their own headphones, Cork and Stephen heard the reply: No one had spotted anything.
“You want, we can go back up and fly a grid. Or we can go talk to Will Pope. Your call.”
“Will Pope,” Stephen leaped in.
Rude looked at Cork.
“Pope,” Cork agreed.
Rude radioed Dewey Quinn and explained what the plan was. Cork and Stephen had removed their flight helmets, so they couldn’t hear the deputy’s response. But Rude laughed and said into his mic, “Give ’em a break, Dewey. When they meet Will, they’ll understand.”
Rude shut down the chopper and explained that because it would be best to keep their visit to the reservation low profile, it would be more prudent to drive. They squeezed into his pickup and headed west.
* * *
Red Hawk lay beyond the Owl Creek Mountains, fifty miles from Hot Springs, at the convergence of two narrow streams. It was a small town in the middle of nowhere on a back highway that would be used only if you wanted to go to Red Hawk, which, from the poor condition of the road, Cork suspected not many people did. The village was a scattering of run-down BIA-constructed housing. At its heart was a school, a nursing home, a two-pump Chevron gas station with a mini-mart, a tiny stucco church named St. Alban, and the Reservation Business Center, which held the tribal offices. The business center looked new. Everything else looked as if it hadn’t been worked on since the Korean War. Rude drove in from the alkali flats to the east. The day had been sunny and the temperature almost balmy. The snow was melting, and the grid of streets—half a dozen running north-south and again as many running east-west, most unpaved—had turned to mud. Will Pope lived at the end of a street that ran past the little church and was called St. Alban Lane. His trailer sat on cinder blocks. A gray station wagon, rust-eaten and mud-spattered, stood parked next to a big propane tank. Behind the trailer, a satellite dish was positioned to catch a signal from the east, and beyond the dish lay a hundred yards of snow-laden sagebrush that ended in a line of cottonwoods growing along a stream bank. There was nothing beyond the cottonwoods except the distant, inevitable collision of white earth and blue sky.
Rude parked beside the station wagon, and they all got out and walked to the trailer. Rude mounted the three steps to the door. As he lifted his hand to knock, a furious barking began inside and an old voice called out, “Who’s there?”
“It’s Jon Rude, Will. I’d like to talk to you. I brought some visitors. And I brought some beer.”
The door opened just wide enough to reveal an old man wearing a ratty blue hooded sweatshirt, jeans faded nearly white, and a pair of thick black socks on his feet. Beside him stood a young German shepherd with its tongue lolling out.
“Beer?” the old man said. He gazed at them with an unspecific focus, and Cork quickly understood that the old man was blind or nearly so.
“Coors, Will. Know how you like it.”
“You got someone with you?”
“Friends. Been showing them the country from my chopper. Mind if we come in?” He reached out and took the old man’s hand and guided it to the six-pack he held.
The old man grasped the beer, turned around, and indicated his visitors should follow.
Compared with the glare off the snow outside, the trailer seemed especially dark. The curtains over the windows were drawn closed and there were no lights on. It took a moment for Cork’s eyes to adjust. What he saw then was a place sparely furnished. A short couch, a stuffed easy chair, a standing lamp, a coffee table. In the kitchen area, there was a dinette with a Formica top and two metal chairs. On a stand in one corner of the room sat a big, new television. The television was on, tuned to a football game. The trailer smelled musty, as if long in need of a good cleaning.
“Listenin’ to the Broncos beat the crap outta Oakland,” the old man said, settling into the stuffed chair. He put the six-pack on the floor, where he could reach it easily with his right hand. Cork and Stephen sat on the couch. Rude stood near the old man. Will Pope held out a bottle of beer, waiting for it to be taken. Rude eased it from his grip and handed it to Cork. The old man offered a second, which Rude kept, and then he offered a third.
“You got us covered, Will,” Rude said. “One of us is too young to drink.”
“Yeah?” The old man twisted the top off his beer and took a long draw. “Which one?”
“Me,” Stephen said.
The old man turned his head in Stephen’s direction. “How old, boy?”
“Thirteen,” Stephen said.
“Hell, I was drinkin’ when I was thirteen.”
“He might be, too, if I let him, grandfather,” Cork said. “My name’s Cork O’Connor. This is my son, Stephen.”
The old man picked up the remote from the arm of his chair and turned the television off. He drank some more of his beer. The dog, who’d been sitting on his haunches next to Pope’s chair, eased himself down and laid his head on his paws.
Rude said, “We wanted to talk to you about that vision of yours, Will. Baby’s Cradle.”
“Never said it was Baby’s Cradle.”
“From the description you gave, it seems pretty clear.”
“In a vision, nuthin’ is necessarily what it seems. What’s your interest?”
“Cork’s wife was on the plane that’s missing.”
“Ah.” The old man nodded.
“When did you have the vision?” Cork asked.
“Come to me the night the plane went missin’.”
“How’d it come to you, grandfather?” Stephen asked.
“Same as always. In a dream.”
“You’ve had visions before?” Cork asked.
The old man looked peeved. “I’m a spirit walker.”
“I had a vision, too,” Stephen said.
The old man’s eyebrows lifted. “That so?”
“I saw my mother disappear behind a door in a wall, grandfather.”
“You sound like a nahita but you speak with respect.”
“Nahita?”
“A white,” Rude said.
“I’m white and I’m Anishinaabe, grandfather.”
“Anishinaabe?”
“Ojibwe, grandfather.”
“Mixed blood.” The old man shrugged as if it wasn’t important. He finished his beer and reached for a second. “Ojibwe. That what the whites call you?”
“Or Chippewa,” Stephen said.
“They call us Arapaho. Hell, that’s the name the Crow give us. We are Inunaina. Means ‘Our People.’ ”
“Inunaina.” Stephen tried the word.
“That’s good, boy. What did you say your name was?”
“Stephen O’Connor.”
“O’Connor. My great-grandfather was Cracks the Sky. The first agent this reservation had couldn’t pronounce o
ur Arapaho names so he give us names he could. Changed my grandfather’s name to Pope. Not like the one in Italy. Some damned poet. Some folks got luckier. Ellyn Grant’s people got named after a president.”
“Would you tell us your vision, grandfather?” Cork said.
The old man took a long draw on his beer. “I seen an eagle come out of a cloud. Not like any eagle I ever seen before. Wings spread, all stiff, like it was frozen. It circled and glided into something looked like a bed only with sides to it.”
“Like a cradle?” Rude said.
“Don’t put words in my mouth, boy.”
“I’m sorry, Will,” Rude said.
“Go on, grandfather,” Cork said.
“It landed and a white blanket floated down and covered it. That’s pretty much it. Except that as it faded away, I heard a scream.”
“From the eagle?” Stephen asked.
“No.” He turned his face in the direction from which Stephen’s voice had come. “Truth is, Stephen, it sounded to me like a woman.”
“Grandfather,” Stephen said cautiously, “do you have a feeling about my mother?”
The old man looked toward him with those eyes that no longer saw the light. He was quiet a long time. “Some people think of death like a hungry wolf, Stephen, and they’re afraid of it. Me, I think death is just walkin’ through a door and we go on livin’ on the other side, livin’ better, livin’ in the true way, just waitin’ for those we love to join us there. I got no feelin’ about your mother, but I think you shouldn’t be afraid. We all walk through that door someday. You understand what I’m sayin’?”
Stephen looked disappointed, but he said, “Yes.”
The old man drank his beer and stared ahead at nothing.
“Anything else?” Rude said to Cork.
“No. That does it, I think. Thank you for your time, grandfather. Migwech.”
“Migwech?”
“In the language of the Anishinaabe people, it means ‘thank you.’ ”
The old man held up his beer. “Hohou. Same thing in Arapaho.”
THIRTEEN
Day Five, Missing 103 Hours
Outside Will Pope’s trailer, Cork paused and looked around. There was no sign of life in Red Hawk. He could hear a distant motor that might have been a generator of some kind, but the streets were deserted. Late Sunday afternoon. Maybe everyone was watching the Broncos beat the crap out of Oakland.
“I’m not sure what that accomplished,” he said.
“He’s not like Henry Meloux,” Stephen said, “but I like him.”
Rude pulled his gloves on. “He was sober. That’s real unusual for Will. Folks here on the rez treat him with respect because he’s an elder, but most don’t give any weight to his visions. I thought maybe if you saw him in his usual state you might understand why Dewey Quinn is skeptical.”
“I still want to fly over Baby’s Cradle,” Stephen said.
Rude shrugged. “Okay by me. Cork?”
“Why not?”
“All right then. I’ll get it cleared with Dewey for tomorrow.” A tan Blazer passed the church, turned onto St. Alban Lane, and came toward them. There were emergency lights across the top, and the lettering on the door indicated that it belonged to the Bureau of Indian Affairs police. The Blazer parked in front of Pope’s place, and an officer got out. He wore a leather jacket over his blue uniform. He was a stocky man with a broad face, dark eyes, close-cropped black hair, and teeth white as baking soda. He squinted in the sunlight, eyeing Rude, then Cork, then Stephen.
“Jon,” he said, “you haven’t been bothering my uncle, have you?”
“We just wanted to talk to him about that vision of his, Andy.”
“Too many people been bothering him about that vision. Wearin’ him out.” He leveled his dark-eyed gaze on Cork. “Your name O’Connor?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Andrew No Voice, chief of the Owl Creek Reservation police. I’ve been asked to escort you to the tribal offices.”
“Who asked?”
“Ellyn Grant. You driving ’em, Jon?”
“Yep.”
“Then come along.”
No Voice returned to his vehicle and waited while Cork and the others got into Rude’s pickup. As soon as Rude kicked the engine over, No Voice headed off and Rude followed.
“Ellyn Grant,” Rude said. “Her eyes and ears are everywhere on the rez.”
“She’s got clout?”
“Big mojo. Smart woman, ambitious, educated, probably knows more about the Northern Arapaho and their history than anybody alive. Went to Stanford on a full scholarship, graduated magna cum laude. Any idea what an achievement that is for an Arapaho? Hell, she could’ve done just about anything she wanted, gone anywhere. What did she do? Returned home, married Edgar Little Bear, and launched herself on a one-woman crusade to get this reservation into the twenty-first century.”
Cork eyed the sad-looking town around him. “Slow going,” he noted.
“Things haven’t gone as well for the Blue Sky Casino as everyone hoped. Hot Springs is too far off the beaten path. Still, the rez has a new business center. That road we came in on is slated to be completely redone this spring. Every enrolled member of the Owl Creek Arapaho gets a regular allotment check from the casino profits. It’s not much at this point, but it’s something. And, believe me, everybody here can always use a little something.”
“And the Blue Sky Casino was Ellyn Grant’s doing?” Cork asked.
Rude nodded. “Her idea beginning to end.”
They parked in the lot of the Reservation Business Center, next to No Voice’s Blazer, and followed him inside. Artwork filled the center’s lobby: oils and watercolors, wood carvings, moccasins and purses and bags with beautiful and intricate beadwork, hand drums, and pottery. On a tripod sat a large sign that read “Absaroka Gallery. Fine Work by Arapaho Artists. One mile east on Highway 57.”
“Nice work,” Cork said.
“Lots of talent on the rez,” No Voice replied with pride.
They passed a bulletin board crowded with notices and flyers: an announcement for a banquet to honor the high school football team, the Eagles; a lot of want ads; a big poster giving the warning signs for a meth lab. They approached a door with a small white plaque mounted on the wall beside it, identifying the office of Owl Creek Reservation Enterprises. No Voice swung the door open and stood aside for the others to enter.
“Here they are, Ellyn.”
It was a large room with filing cabinets, a computer workstation, and a long table with half a dozen empty chairs around it. Grant sat at a desk of polished wood that was positioned in front of a window with a view of the empty powwow grounds not far away. Open before her lay a folder of documents with pages full of numbers. She was wearing glasses and held a yellow pencil. She smiled and said, “Thank you, Andy.”
No Voice pulled the door shut and remained outside. Grant closed the folder, put the pencil down, stood up, and went to the long table. “Please,” she said, “have a seat.”
Occupying the center of the table was an architect’s model, a miniature construct of a complex of connected buildings surrounded by miniature mountains with ski runs. The model was labeled: “The Gateway Grand Casino, a joint project of the Owl Creek Arapaho and Realm-McCrae Development.”
“We didn’t really have a chance to talk last night,” she said. “And the Antelope Grill isn’t the kind of place to have the kind of discussion I’d like to have.”
“And what kind of discussion is that?” Cork said.
“People we love are missing. My husband. Your wife.” She offered Stephen a look of deep sympathy. “Your mother. I’ve barely slept since I got word. And I’ve been all over Dewey Quinn trying to get him to expand the area of the search they’re making.”
“To include Baby’s Cradle?” Cork asked.
“Exactly. With all due respect to Sheriff Kosmo, he’s a nice guy but he’d need help finding his way out of a closet.”
“It’s my understanding that Commander Nickleson in Cody is in charge of the search.”
“Dewey Quinn has lots of influence with Nickleson, and Quinn takes his orders from Jim Kosmo. If Kosmo says forget about Baby’s Cradle, Quinn won’t push it.” She sat back, and for a moment her eyes drifted out the window toward the winter landscape of Red Hawk. When she looked at Cork again, she appeared deeply troubled. “You talked with Will Pope. What do you think?”
“I don’t know Will Pope.”
“I liked him,” Stephen jumped in.
“I’m glad,” Grant said. “I like old Will, too. A lot of people are eager to write him off because of his drinking, but this vision of his, well, it seems to me to have a lot of merit.”
“Put yourself in the place of Sheriff Kosmo or Dewey Quinn,” Cork said. “They’re working with limited resources and in a desperate time frame. They’re having to make decisions that seem to them the most judicious at the moment.”
“Spoken like a member of the cop fraternity,” Grant said. “But I understand you’re part Ojibwe. Listen to that part of yourself.”
“Wouldn’t matter. I’m not in charge of the search and rescue operation.”
“If Kosmo gets enough pressure from those of us with a sincere stake in the outcome, maybe he’ll swing some of the search planes our way.”
“Our way?”
“I need your help. Have you seen the most recent weather forecast?”
“No.”
“Another storm system is heading this way. In a couple of days, it’ll hit the Rockies and we’ll get more snow in the high country. Anything not buried now will most surely be buried then.”
All along, Cork had known they were working against impossibilities—the cold, the harsh terrain, the size of the search area, its emptiness. Yet he’d struggled to hold to a hope, however remote, that Jo and the others had survived the fall from the sky and that it was only a matter of finding them. Now even this fragile hope was about to be shattered. He tried not to show his devastation, tried not to let Stephen see.
“We have two days, Cork,” Grant said.
“We’re going to Baby’s Cradle tomorrow,” Stephen said. He still sounded buoyed by hope.
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