Heaven's Keep

by William Kent Krueger

  “We split up here,” he finally said. “You head up, follow the rim. I’ll stay below with the stream.”

  Parmer looked ahead into the canyon. “If he’s going to jump you, this is where he’ll do it.”

  “It’s where I’d do it,” Cork agreed.

  “If that happens, do your best to keep him busy,” Parmer said. “I’ll get behind him as fast as I can. If you hit the end of the canyon and nothing’s gone down, backtrack and I’ll meet you here and we can figure what to do next.”

  They shook hands. Parmer turned his horse up the slope and began to mount toward the canyon rim. Cork made sure the magazine on his Savage 110 was full, and he chambered a round. He cradled the rifle across his lap and urged his horse ahead at a walk.

  In the protection of the canyon, the wind ceased to be a problem, but the snow still dropped a translucent curtain all around. Above him, the rock walls, dotted with juniper and scrub brush and jumbles of broken rock, rose up and disappeared in the snowfall. The ground snow was deeper here, sometimes reaching midway to the horse’s knees, and the only sign of the trail was the mess left by the passage of Nightwind. Judging from the lack of drift in the prints, Cork figured the man wasn’t far ahead.

  Fifteen minutes into the canyon, the trail ended abruptly. The prints of Nightwind’s horse simply stopped. The snow ahead was unmarred, as if the man Cork had been tracking had vanished into thin air. He realized that Nightwind had backtracked and was behind him.

  He spun his horse just as the first shot came. Cork felt a club hit him in the middle of his chest, and he was knocked from the saddle. He hit the ground and his horse charged back the way it had come. Cork lay facedown in the snow, still as death. His chest hurt like hell, but the Kevlar vest Kosmo had provided him had stopped a round that would have pierced his heart. He waited, barely breathing. Finally he heard the crunch of Nightwind’s boots in the snow. The man stopped a couple of feet away.

  “Christ,” Nightwind said. “Didn’t I warn you?”

  He stepped closer and knelt. He laid his rifle in the snow and slid his hands under Cork’s body to turn him faceup. Cork made his move. As he rolled over, he reached up and grabbed Nightwind’s coat. He caught the man off guard and flung him easily to the ground. Not two feet away from Cork lay the rifle. He snatched it up and swung the barrel toward Nightwind, who’d scrambled to a crouch and was about to launch himself.

  “Move and you’re the dead man,” Cork said.

  Nightwind froze. He studied Cork, his body tensed while he weighed his options. Finally he relaxed, abandoned his crouch, and stood to his full height. “Now what?”

  Cork rose to his feet, keeping the rifle trained dead center on Nightwind’s chest. “Now you tell me about my wife.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then I take you back.”

  Nightwind shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re not in a position to bargain.”

  “On the contrary, I’ve got what you want most and I don’t intend to give it to you without getting what I want in return.”

  “Which is what?”

  “You let me go.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Then your wife is lost to you forever.”

  Cork said, “Not necessarily. Right now I’m thinking I might string you up and have a go at you the same way you did Gully.”

  Again Nightwind shook his head. “Uh-uh. That’s not you, O’Connor.”

  “You have no idea what I’m capable of. Especially where my wife is concerned.”

  “I know you love her and I know how that feels. My whole life Ellyn’s been everything to me. Whatever I’ve done and tried to do it was for her. That freedom I’m asking you for, it’s about her and about love.”

  “How so?”

  “Why do you think I headed into these mountains? Just to run? Hell, I’ve got nothing to run to. Everything I care about is gone. Ellyn. My ranch. A future. I figured up here I could regroup and then go after the men who killed Ellyn because I’m damn sure they’ll be coming after me. It would have been easier for me if you hadn’t crippled my planes.”

  “You already took care of the men who killed Ellyn. Gully and Mike.”

  Nightwind laughed, a bitter sound. “I’m talking about the men behind all this, the ones really responsible for Ellyn dying. Mike and Gully were nothing. They were like tools in a shed, used to get the dirty work done. No, the guys I’m after, the guys pulling all the strings, with their money and their power, they’re going to be almost impossible to get to. But I know who they are and I know how to get to them. And swear to God I’m going to make them pay. You think Gully suffered, that was nothing.”

  “Tell me who they are. The law will get them.”

  “The law is a turtle. This needs to be finished quickly.”

  “How do you know these men?”

  “I’ve done jobs for them over the years.”

  “You brought them to Ellyn?”

  “Yeah.” He didn’t seem happy about admitting it. “She was desperate. The little casino in Hot Springs, it was going nowhere, and building it put the rez deep in debt. These people, they were drooling to get their claws into an Indian casino, and they have the money to make a huge project happen. She thought it was the way to help the Arapaho. She was afraid Little Bear’s plan would end up with the big oil companies fucking the land and the people on it because that’s the way it’s always ended. I told her these men were dangerous, but she was sure she could handle them. Fact is, she wasn’t doing too bad until you came along.”

  “Whose idea was it to get rid of Little Bear on the charter flight? Yours?”

  “We worked it out together. With some help from Gully and Mike.”

  “Ellyn couldn’t persuade him any other way?”

  “He couldn’t be bought. And he was too old to be swayed anymore by her other obvious charms. Me, I was happy just to get him out of the picture.”

  “Yeah, and how’d it feel murdering all those people, murdering Sandy Bodine?”

  “I’ve killed men before, O’Connor. From what I’ve been told, you have, too, so don’t go all sanctimonious on me. We both had our reasons.”

  “What did you do with Bodine’s body?”

  “Burial at sea, so to speak. On my way to Aurora, I flew over Lake Superior and dumped him. You know what they say about that lake? Never gives up her dead.”

  “What about Stilwell?”

  “That wasn’t my doing. Mike and Gully said they sank the body in a bog somewhere in the Wisconsin woods. God only knows where.” Nightwind eyed him levelly. “So how about it? You going to let me go?”

  The wind sent snow between them and against them, and Cork felt the cold kiss of it on his face.

  “How do I explain it to the wives of the men who died on that charter plane? How do I explain it to Becca Bodine?”

  “Tell ’em you did it for love. They’ll understand.”

  “And if I let you go, you’ll tell me where my wife is?”

  “That’s the deal.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “Same goes for me. As soon as you have what you want, what’s to prevent you from shooting me? Mexican standoff, O’Connor.”

  Nightwind grinned, lifted his hand as if it were a gun, and pointed it at Cork.

  The shot came from behind Cork and above him. Nightwind’s body jerked with the impact of the round, and he looked startled, then his knees buckled and he dropped to the ground and lay bleeding into the snow. Cork went to him quickly. Nightwind stared up into his face and blinked several times as if stunned.

  “Lame?”

  Nightwind grunted. “Should’ve known you wouldn’t come alone.”

  Cork heard the scrape of boot sole on rock, and a moment later Hugh Parmer was at his side holding the Weatherby he’d taken from Nightwind’s ranch.

  “Why did you shoot?” Cork said angrily.

  “I thought he was going to s
hoot you.”

  “He didn’t have a weapon, Hugh.”

  “I thought . . .” Parmer looked at the wounded man’s empty hand. “Christ, I couldn’t see. The snow, Cork.”

  Nightwind coughed blood. “Looks like neither of us gets what we wanted, O’Connor.”

  Cork set his rifle down and gently lifted Nightwind and cradled his head. “Lame, I swear to God I’ll deliver these men to justice. Just tell me who they are. Tell me where my wife is.”

  Nightwind breathed with great difficulty, and a sickening rattle came from deep in his throat. He said, “You love her, O’Connor, and love’s brought you a far piece. This is hard country. It’s full of hard men, but you bested them all. There’s a good deal in you to admire. If love was everything, you’d have what you came for. But there’s one thing love can’t do. It can’t give you back the dead. You won’t see your wife again. Not in this life.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “She’s been dead since almost the beginning.”

  “If she’s dead, where’s her body?”

  “A place you’ll never find without my help.”

  “Tell me.”

  Nightwind struggled for breath, then said, “Give me your promise you’ll go after these men. Even if the law can’t get to them, you will.”

  “You have it.”

  “Something to write with? I don’t want you to forget.”

  Parmer pulled out his wallet and plucked a piece of paper from among the folded currency. He dug inside his coat and drew out the pencil stub.

  As Nightwind spoke, Parmer wrote down the information he provided, which was the name of the place Cork would find Jo, the names of the three men responsible, the name of a bank in Denver, and the number of a safe-deposit box there.

  “In the box,” Nightwind said. “All the evidence you need to get these guys. Been gathering it for years. Insurance policy, you know? Photos, tape recordings, records. Your wife. Others before her. It’s all there. In the hands of a good prosecutor, it’ll put these assholes in the gas chamber, I swear it.” He grabbed hold of Cork’s coat sleeve. “Get them, O’Connor. Promise me you’ll get them.”

  “I promise.”

  Nightwind let go.

  Parmer handed the paper over, and Cork read the name of the place where Nightwind had said he would find his wife. He was baffled.

  “Bonita, Mexico?” he asked.

  “In Sonora,” Nightwind said, nearly breathless.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will.”

  Parmer said, “Maybe we can bind your wound, Lame.”

  Nightwind shook his head. “It’s over. Just let me go.”

  Cork told Parmer to round up the horses. Parmer looked down at Nightwind. Then he looked at the rifle he’d used to fire the fatal bullet. Finally he turned and walked away into the snow to find the horses.

  It wasn’t exactly over. Nightwind lingered for another hour. He spoke no more and struggled simply to breathe. Cradled in Cork’s arms, he stared up at the falling snow, and when the snow stopped and the wind blew the clouds away he stared up at an evening sky filling with stars. The canyon ran near the foot of Heaven’s Keep, and the great formation stood white and imperious in the last light of day. At the very end, just before Nightwind took his final ragged breath, his eyes drifted to the cold face of rock, and it seemed to Cork that a sense of satisfaction settled over Lame Deer Nightwind, as if he’d just been given the answer to a great question. Afterward Cork followed the dead man’s gaze to the top of Heaven’s Keep, which appeared to be among the stars themselves, and he thought that maybe if he climbed there he could look into the face of God and understand all the tragedy that had brought him to that place.

  But in his head he knew that he would never climb. And in his heart he doubted that he would ever understand.

  FORTY-FIVE

  It was an old Spanish mission, whitewashed stucco, set amid saguaro cacti and creosote bushes, with the Sierra Madres in the distance under a cloudless blue sky. Blooming bougainvillea climbed the courtyard walls, and the flowers of a large garden grew in the shade of desert willows. At the center was a fountain bubbling softly.

  In the office where they sat waiting, Cork, Stephen, and Parmer could hear the fountain through the open window.

  There was a knock at the door. A man and a woman entered. The man was dressed in an expensive gray suit and wore a blue silk tie. The woman wore tan slacks, a white blouse, and an embroidered blue vest. She was older than the man. Her hair was gray and her eyes were calm brown.

  Cork and his son and Parmer stood, and they all shook hands and sat down together around the table.

  The man in the suit had a small mustache, thin and black against his olive skin. He spoke with a Hispanic accent. Cork had met him earlier, briefly. His name was Ramirez. “I have brought Sister Amelia. She was responsible for your wife while she was with us.”

  Sister Amelia smiled graciously. “I’m sure there’s much you want to know.”

  “She couldn’t be saved?” Cork’s most burning question.

  The man in the suit answered. “When Mr. Nightwind delivered her to us, our doctors examined her thoroughly. By the time she arrived, there was no hope. The MRI showed the bullet lodged against her spine and surrounded by infection. There was also evidence of significant brain damage due, our doctors suspected, to oxygen deprivation.”

  “She was trapped in a buried airplane,” Stephen said.

  Ramirez lifted his hand gently to stop Stephen. “We’re a hospice center, son. We’re concerned primarily with helping those who come to us make a peaceful passage to the next life. Because many of our clients have backgrounds they would prefer remain a secret, we ask no questions and seek no explanations. Our location, far from prying eyes and prying officials, ensures that in their final days the privacy of our clients is respected. You understand.”

  “Was she in any pain?” Cork asked.

  “Our doctors made sure that she was not,” Ramirez said.

  “Was she conscious at all?” Stephen asked. “Did she say anything?”

  “No.” Ramirez looked toward Parmer. “We have details to discuss of her transport back to the States—on your aircraft, yes?”

  “That’s right,” Parmer said.

  “Perhaps you and I could handle this for the moment. Sister Amelia, I believe, has something she would like to show Mr. O’Connor. Sister?”

  She looked kindly at Cork and at Stephen. “Would you follow me?”

  “Sure.” Cork glanced at Parmer. “Thanks, Hugh.”

  “No trouble, partner.”

  They left the office and strolled through the courtyard, which was filled with the fragrance of the flowers and the gentle murmur of the fountain.

  In the days behind, the groundwork for justice had been laid. The men Lame Deer Nightwind was after were Donald and Victor Arbuela, who were brothers, and a brother-in-law, Thomas Quintanna. Cork was sure they didn’t know Jo and had nothing against her personally. To them her death was simply business. They all lived in Miami and claimed to be in real estate. In the photographs, they were balding men with skin tanned the color of a grocery store paper bag and faces as mundane as lettuce. Cork wasn’t surprised that they didn’t look particularly evil. He’d seen the face of evil enough to know that more often than not it was dreadfully ordinary. The safe-deposit box in the Denver bank had yielded damning evidence against the three, evidence of years of corruption, fraud, theft, and murder by men who thought they were untouchable. The U.S. attorney in Denver, a woman named Sheila Cannon, who carefully evaluated the evidence, assured Cork they were not. He told her of Nightwind’s belief that justice moved with the speed of a turtle. Cannon said maybe so, but in the end the turtle always won the race. Cork understood Lame Nightwind’s doubt about the ultimate ability of the law to prevail, and he chose not to share with Cannon his intention, if the law failed, to keep his promise to Nightwind.

  He had retrieved his s
on, who’d returned from his solitary time in the woods having received the vision he sought. Stephen hadn’t told Cork what that vision was; perhaps he never would. But the change in him was obvious, and the quiet strength in his young, dark Anishinaabe eyes was compelling. Cork believed that Stephen was fully prepared for the final responsibility that lay before them.

  Halfway across the courtyard, Cork paused and turned to Sister Amelia. “How did Lame Nightwind know about this place?”

  “Several years ago he was hired to deliver a dying man to us. This man’s name, if I divulged it, would be well known to you. His deeds were dark and infamous. Here, he was a different man. I have often seen this. Confronted with the prospect of soon standing before God, unable to hide behind lies and artifice and pretense, people see their lives differently. I’m thankful I don’t have to be responsible for judging their time on earth. My duty, my calling, is simply to help prepare them for their audience with the Lord.”

  “And my wife? How was she at the end?”

  Sister Amelia began to stroll again. “I was with her constantly. She never spoke. She never regained consciousness. But, Mr. O’Connor, I felt a strength in her that surprised me. Do you know the poem that says, ‘Do not go gentle into that good night’?”

  “Not really,” Cork said.

  “It’s about death. At first, your wife did not want to go gently. She did not want to die. Or rather, there was something she wanted very much before she died.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t know. She had no way of telling me. But I believed absolutely there was unfinished business so important to her that she couldn’t let go of life until somehow she’d seen to it. In my experience, the only force powerful enough to make death stand back that way is love. So I believed it had to do with love. I prayed with her. I told her that whatever was holding her to this world, God would take care of it. She heard me, Mr. O’Connor, and she believed. And she finally let go.”