Heaven's Keep

by William Kent Krueger

  “Nightwind sent them. That guy’s like the devil. He knows how to get to you.”

  “What did they want you for?” Parmer asked.

  It was Cork who answered. “They needed a man on the inside of the department, a guy who could keep them informed and if necessary remove the complications of the law. Who better for that than the officer responsible for the investigation of major crimes in Owl Creek County? When Felicia Gray’s car took that plunge, I’m sure Dewey here was quick on the official determination of cause. A tragic accident. And all it took to buy his soul was money. Hell, Dewey, I thought you had your eyes on a job with the FBI.”

  “There’s no cop job in the world pays like they were paying me.” Despite his disgrace, he’d eyed Hugh Parmer and managed a look of disdain. “Not all of us have the luxury of being rich.”

  Quinn sat between them now. They’d tied his hands with twine from his toolbox, and they’d bound his ankles as well.

  Cork used Parmer’s cell phone to call Jim Kosmo and tell him about the plane buried in the canyon under Eagle Cloud. When the sheriff asked where he and Parmer were at that moment, Cork wouldn’t say. Which didn’t sit at all well with Kosmo. Big surprise.

  The compound lay in the blue shadow of the foothills. Cork parked Quinn’s truck, took the binoculars from the knapsack, and got out. Parmer joined him, and for several minutes they studied their objective.

  The place seemed deserted. Cork spotted the pickup that the Arapaho kid had driven the day before, parked in front of the barn. Although he couldn’t see anyone moving about, the barn door was clearly open.

  “Well?” Parmer said.

  “There may be someone in the barn.”

  “How do we handle this?”

  “Approach on foot, do our best to surprise him.”

  “What about Quinn?”

  “We leave him with the truck.”

  “What if he tries to get away?”

  Cork hauled Quinn out of the cab. He hopped the deputy to the front of the truck and sat him on the bumper. “Toss me that roll of twine,” he said to Parmer. He bound Quinn to the grille. When he stepped back, he said, “Dewey, we come back and I find you gone, I’ll hunt you down and shoot you like a rabbit, don’t think I won’t.”

  Cork grabbed Quinn’s Winchester from the rack in the cab. Parmer, who was holding his Ruger, gave a long look at the rifle, then another long look at Cork. But he said nothing.

  They made their way down the slope, which was covered with short, coarse grass and punctuated by large rocks that protruded from the earth like the bows of sinking ships. Moving carefully rock to rock, they took several minutes to reach the barn. From inside came the sound of someone whistling. A Roy Orbison tune. “Running Scared.” Cork peered around the edge of the open door. The older Arapaho who’d greeted them on their first visit to the ranch was standing at a worktable, a screwdriver in his hand, laboring over a piece of sheet metal. Cork saw no one else. He signaled to Parmer, and the two men slipped inside. They approached the Arapaho, who suddenly stopped his work and spun. When he saw them, he reached toward a rifle that lay on the bench next to the worktable.

  “Hold it right there,” Cork said.

  The Arapaho froze, a foot of empty air between his hand and the weapon he’d gone for.

  “Move away from the firearm,” Cork ordered.

  The Arapaho sidled a yard to his right.

  “Where’s Nightwind?”

  The Arapaho didn’t answer.

  “You always work with a rifle close at hand?”

  “In this country,” the man replied, “you never know what kind of animal might be sneaking around. It’s my job to protect this property and the livestock on it.”

  “Where’s Nightwind?” Cork asked again.

  “He’s not here.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “I don’t know where he is.”

  “Suppose I go up to the house and have a look-see?”

  The Arapaho gave no sign that he cared one way or the other.

  “Sit on the ground,” Cork told him.

  The man sat.

  “Watch him, Hugh. I’m going to see if I can rustle up a little Nightwind.”

  “Careful, partner.”

  Cork stood at the barn door and studied the house a long moment. He slipped out and dashed to the outbuilding where the ATVs and heavy equipment were kept. From there, he ran to the garage and took a quick look inside. One of the spaces was empty. Which didn’t necessarily mean anything. He sprinted to the house and approached the front door. Locked. He eased along the side of the house and checked the windows as he went. The curtains were open. There appeared to be no one inside. He came to a side door, which was also locked. He used the butt of Quinn’s rifle to shatter one of the panes in the mullioned window, and he reached inside to free the lock. With his hip he nudged the door open and popped inside. Room by room he crept through the house, satisfying himself that it was empty. The place was simply furnished, decorated with artwork like the kind on display at the gallery in the Reservation Business Center. A framed photograph on the mantel in the living room caught his eye. It showed two young people holding hands, with foothills at their backs, and with Heaven’s Keep looming above the whole scene like a guardian angel. The young woman was Ellyn Grant. The young man was Lame Nightwind. It must have been taken twenty years before and in a happier time. They were holding hands and smiling.

  Cork returned to the barn.

  “He’s not there.” He stood at the open door and eyed the thread of woodsmoke rising in the foothills half a mile away. “There’s somewhere else he might be, though. Let’s pay a visit to your place.”

  “No,” the Arapaho said.

  “Yes,” Cork said. “And we’re going to take your pickup. You drive.”

  The Arapaho stood his ground and would not move.

  “All right,” Cork said. “We’ll tie you up, leave you down here, and we’ll still take your truck.”

  “All right,” the Arapaho said. “I’ll drive you there.”

  They left the barn, and at the pickup Cork said, “Hugh, give me your gun. I’ll ride up front with our host. You take the rifle and hunker down in back so nobody can see you.” To the Arapaho, he said, “Any shooting starts, you take the first bullet.”

  “You’d really shoot me?”

  “You want to find out?”

  “Nightwind isn’t at my cabin.”

  “I’d like to see that for myself.”

  “Only my wife is there. You’ll frighten her. She won’t give you any trouble, I promise. None of us will.”

  “Fine. Then this should be easy all the way around. Let’s go.”

  The Arapaho slid behind the wheel, and Cork took the seat next to him. He held Parmer’s Ruger in his lap with the muzzle toward the man driving. Parmer lay down in back with the rifle beside him. They took off and followed a dirt road that wound through foothills dotted with lodgepole pines. As they approached the cabin, Cork saw that it was built among a gathering of cottonwoods. Nestled into the fold of the hills, with smoke rising from the chimney, it looked like a good, peaceful place to live. Cork hoped he wouldn’t find Nightwind there. He hated the thought of bringing violence to the Arapaho’s home. But if it would help him find Jo, he’d raise hell in heaven itself.

  The Arapaho braked to a stop fifty yards from the cabin. A sheep-dog, black and white, left the porch and trotted out to meet them. The dog hesitated and must have caught the strange scent of Cork and Parmer, because it began to bark fiercely. Cork saw a curtain move in a front window.

  “Go on,” he said to the Arapaho. “Pull all the way up.”

  The man took his time. When they were parked near the porch, Cork said, “Slide this way. We’re getting out the same side.” He opened his door and used it to shield him from the cabin as the Arapaho maneuvered out. Parmer jumped from the pickup bed and stood beside Cork.

  “Walk to the house and keep in front of us,�
� he told the Arapaho.

  “You’re scaring my wife,” the Arapaho said.

  “If Nightwind’s not here, she has nothing to fear.”

  The door opened before they reached the porch, and a woman appeared. She wore her hair in a long, graying braid. She had on a tan blouse and a long green skirt, embroidered along the hem. Around her waist an apron was tied, and she wiped her hands on it as she looked the men over. She spoke to her husband in Arapaho. He replied in the same language.

  “What are you saying?” Cork asked.

  “She wants to know who you are. I told her.”

  “Told her what?”

  “Men looking for Lame.”

  “Lame’s gone,” she said.

  “We’d like to take a look inside, ma’am, just for our own peace of mind.”

  The woman glanced at her husband, who spoke again in Arapaho. She stood aside, leaving the way clear for them to enter.

  “After you,” Cork said to the Arapaho.

  Inside, the air was sharp and redolent with the aroma of cooking chili peppers. Parmer stayed with the couple while Cork checked the rooms. The place was cozy and simple: a small living room and kitchen, a bathroom, and two bedrooms. One of the bedrooms was decorated with posters of aircraft of all kind. A biplane, a World War II Sabre jet, a stealth bomber. Plastic airplane models hung from strings tacked to the ceiling boards. When Cork returned to the others, he said, “Your grandson, he wants to fly?”

  The woman made no reply, but her husband gave a diffident shrug.

  “Where is he?”

  “Out,” the Arapaho said. “Riding.”

  “Where’s Nightwind?”

  “I told you. We don’t know. He comes. He goes. He doesn’t have to tell me. He’s my boss, I’m not his.”

  “Have you seen a woman with him? A white woman, blond?”

  “No,” the man said.

  His wife spoke to him in Arapaho. He hushed her harshly.

  “What did she say?”

  “That she’s afraid you’re going to kill us.”

  “We’re not going to hurt you,” Cork said to her.

  She eyed the Ruger in his hand, and he lowered it to his side, muzzle toward the floor.

  “I just want to find my wife. If you know the truth and if you’re hiding Lame Nightwind, it could be bad for you. You could be charged with a crime.”

  “What crime?” asked the Arapaho.

  “Aiding and abetting a known criminal.”

  “You know that Lame’s a criminal?”

  “I do. At least five people are dead because of him.”

  “We don’t know where he is, and that’s God’s truth. We don’t know when he’ll be back. And we don’t know anything about a blond white woman.”

  Cork looked at the Arapaho’s wife, who looked at the floor. “All right,” he finally said. “Let’s get out of here, Hugh.”

  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.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  They 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.”

&
nbsp; “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.”