The Glacier Gallows

by Stephen Legault

  Tara put her hand up. “Under what authority are you holding us?”

  “You are material witnesses in a murder investigation, and under US law we can transport you to a facility for questioning. Before further questioning, you’ll be read your Miranda warnings. You’ll each have the option of delaying your statements until we can bring in some lawyers from Choteau or Great Falls.”

  “What about our gear?” asked Derek.

  “Your personal items will be carefully packaged and transported to Browning. The FBI may remove some of these items for forensic testing at a facility of our choosing. You may take your phones with you. I’m sure some of you are anxious to reach your family members.”

  Cole Blackwater put up his hand, feeling very much like a fourth-grader. “What about Blake Foreman?”

  “We have two teams of four search-and-rescue technicians currently at work. We also have teams working in Waterton Townsite, at Many Glacier, and at East Glacier. Now, we have the first Black Hawk inbound and it can take your entire complement plus two of our agents, so let’s get ready to fly, shall we?” Listening to the agent, Cole couldn’t help feeling like he was going on a sightseeing tour. A moment later, the heavy thock of the helicopter shook the earth and came into view.

  “Alright, keep your heads low,” shouted the agent as he led the group single file toward the Black Hawk. They piled in, Cole arriving last. He took another look back toward the camp where his brother and other law-enforcement officers huddled together.

  “Alright, I’ll be seeing some of you in Browning tonight,” said McCallum. “Agent Walker here will be your chaperone. He’ll see to your lodging and a meal and to the provision of a lawyer should any of you want it before making your statement.” With that McCallum smiled and slid the heavy door shut. The helicopter lifted off, and Cole pressed his face to the window to watch as the world below slowly receded. They circled the camp once, and Cole could see both the RCMP and FBI forensics teams beginning to work on the tents of the hiking party.

  Near the edge of the cliff, the RCMP had set up a portable tent, twelve feet by twelve feet. There was a diesel generator next to it. Cole guessed that the tent was there to keep the murder scene from being further eroded by the elements. He noticed that two agents were working their way backward from the tent to the campsite. One of the agents had a dog that was examining each rock.

  The Black Hawk started east, and Cole’s view of the camp vanished. Now he was looking out over the vast, flat expanse of the mountaintop, its long, wide ridge dropping steeply to the north and Crypt Lake. The FBI agent sitting with the hikers crowded into the back of the bird reached up and put on a headset that was hanging above him. Cole looked over his shoulder and saw another headset, and he casually reached up and put them on. He glanced at the agent, but he didn’t seem to be paying attention to Cole. Cole looked out the starboard window, watching the mountains slip past.

  Static filled the headset, and Cole winced. “Agent McCallum, this is S&R-one. Do you copy?”

  “Go ahead, S&R-one.”

  “You’re going to want to see this, sir.”

  “What have you got?”

  Cole listened to the distant voices. He risked a glance around him and saw that both Rick and Derek were watching him. The FBI agent continued to watch the earth below.

  “We’ve got something here about two miles from your position. There’s a gully that drops off toward Waterton Lake off Mount Boswell. We’ve got a body, sir.”

  “Identification?”

  “Two of the team are on site now. We’re on top. Hold on.”

  A long moment passed. Cole could feel his heart beating in his throat. He strained to hear the conversation in the headset over the din of the Black Hawk.

  “What have you got, S&R-one?” Special Agent McCallum sounded less jocular than when he was giving instructions to the hiking party.

  “Male, deceased, massive trauma to the back of the head. Looks like he fell. We’ve got recently disturbed talus and scree. They have a wallet. Hold. Okay, we’ve got possible ID. Foreman, Blake. We’ll have to confirm with the autopsy. Thirty-six years old, address is in Georgia, but the licence is expired.”

  “Alright, I’ll pass the word up here that we have our missing person. We’ll have Evidence Recovery on station in the next hour. You’re in a second crime scene, S&R-one.”

  ELEVEN

  OTTAWA, ONTARIO. FEBRUARY 13.

  BY 8:00 AM BRIAN MARRIOTT was back at his office, digging. But digging for what? he asked himself, elbows on the desk, head in his hands. He picked up the phone and dialed the number of Rick Turcotte’s parliamentary office, but all he got was voice mail. Ministers and parliamentary secretaries usually huddled around 7:30 each morning, so it was likely Rick and his staff were in the minister’s office. Brian left a message.

  For the next hour he skulked around various parliamentary news­letter web pages and searched for anything he could find about today’s announcements. When his phone rang at 9:00 AM, he jumped. He snatched the receiver up. “Marriott, AEG.”

  “Mr. Turcotte is holding for you,” said a woman’s voice.

  “Put him on, please.” There was a pause.

  “Brian, you called?”

  “Mr. Secretary. Yes, I did. That was quite the reception last night.”

  “Are you pleased with the announcement? You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

  “I guess I’d like to read the full instructions for the regulatory review before I say one way or the other.”

  “Well, I can arrange to have them sent over, but it will have to wait until after today’s press conference. This government doesn’t want any leaks. Will you be there?”

  “I’m considering it.”

  “You should be. This is good news for you.”

  “So you say, Secretary.”

  “I do. I’ll see you there. I have to go, Brian. Eleven AM. Don’t be late.” Rick Turcotte hung up. Brian looked at the receiver in his hand and did the same.

  A moment later, the phone rang again. He thought it might be Turcotte calling back. It was Joe Firstlight from the Blackfeet Nation. Brian let out his breath. “Hi, Joe, how are things in big sky country this morning?”

  “Cold and dry. We haven’t had any snow here in a month. Last winter we had record snow; this year, nothing.”

  “Extreme fluctuations in annual weather patterns are one of the consequences of climate change.”

  “If this keeps up, we’re going to have to truck water in as early as June this year. Listen, you asked me to dig around about High Country Energy. I did. There’s some pretty testy people right now on the Blackfeet Council. I’ve got a pretty good idea of what’s happening—why we’ve been shut out, and why HCE has had the doors opened wide for them.”

  “Did you find out if HCE had someone in the closed-door meetings last month?”

  “I found out they did, but not who. I don’t think it was the head honcho. It was someone local who is on the payroll. Some kind of consultant or something.”

  “Can you find out who?”

  “Nobody will talk with me anymore, Brian. Even my friends on the council have clammed up, and I think I know why the tribe is doing this. At first, I just thought that all these gas wells were going to net the band a lot more money. I’ve poked around and I’m pretty sure someone is on the take. It looks like HCE has offered to build a new community center in Browning, fix up some of the cultural sites around the res, and even fix some of the water infrastructure at the local high school.”

  “Strictly speaking, that’s not graft, it’s extortion, in the political sense, but I don’t know if it’s illegal.”

  “The band says that all of those projects will cost about six million dollars—six-point-three, to be exact. But I got a friend in the IRS down in Great Falls who was able to do some dirty work for me, and he says that High Country Energy reports marketing and promotional expenses for this project that are closer to eight million.”
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br />   “Maybe they’re padding their promotional budget somewhere?”

  “Yeah, I thought of that. But HCE doesn’t do any formal marketing. No advertising. This isn’t Chevron; they don’t sell anything to the end consumer. All these guys do is find oil and gas, get it out of the ground, and then sell it to someone else to refine and pass on to the consumer. No, this two-million-dollar discrepancy is something other than billboards and TV ads.”

  “Where do you think it’s going? If HCE is reporting it to the IRS, then it can’t be for bribes.”

  “Depends on what you call a bribe.”

  “Is there proof? You could go to the media.”

  “I don’t know. There’s no straight line.”

  “What do you want to do, Joe?”

  “I don’t know what to do. Remember what I told you about our beliefs about digging holes in the ground, Brian?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “High Country is going to drill eighty of them.”

  BRIAN MARRIOTT WENT through security at the House of Commons and picked up his pass. He walked up the stairs to the main entrance hall and then proceeded to the National Press Theatre.

  As he entered the room, his Blackberry buzzed. He was a few minutes early, but the room was already crowded with reporters and parliamentary staff. He found a seat near the back and looked at his phone. There was a message from Charles Wendell:

  Sorry 4 last night. By way of apology am sending u this frm the review guidelines 2 be released at 11. “The Minister shall direct his department to include other forms of power generation to be included under the category of ‘alternative’ so that they may be considered for energy procurement programs under the new guidelines: wind, solar, geothermal, tidal, run of the river (hydro), traditional hydro, nuclear, clean coal technology and other forms of power deemed to be ‘alternative’ by the Minister.”

  Brian checked his watch. It was 10:58. He typed back quickly. Where did you get this?

  Friend inside Dept leaked 2 me. Gone out to reporters. It’s a trap.

  Brian looked around the room. There were about twenty reporters there. He zeroed in on Tara Sinclair, the science reporter for the Globe and Mail, in the front row. She had her head down, looking at her iPhone.

  Brian typed back, I’m in the Press Theatre.

  Get out now.

  Brian had started to stand when David Canning walked in the door. With no way of making an exit without raising a ruckus, Brian sat down and waited for the trap to be sprung.

  “THE MINISTER WONDERS if you have a moment to talk, Mr. Marriott.” Brian had made the most of his House of Commons pass and seated himself in the government lobby. Behind each side of the House of Commons was a sitting area where members from all parties could chat, eat, plot, and be on hand in the event that they were needed in the House. Brian had been talking with several government backbench MPs about the day’s announcement when the aid to the minister found him.

  “Sure. Where?”

  “Upstairs. He’s just finishing up an interview.”

  Five minutes later, Brian was seated on a sprawling leather couch in the minister’s parliamentary office. The room was massive, with high ceilings and a fireplace and ornate wooden bookshelves. Brian felt a little like an errant schoolboy awaiting a scolding. The minister was in an adjoining office, taping an interview with CBC radio. Brian heard the man sign off, and a moment later Canning came through the door.

  Brian stood and shook the proffered hand. The minister forced a smile. “Thanks for seeing me, Brian.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Minister.”

  “Do you want anything? Coffee, a soft drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Sit, please.” The two men sat across from one another. The minister crossed his legs and straightened the pleat on his suit pants. They were alone in the room. “You didn’t like the announcement.” It was a statement.

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not? You wanted a review of government regulations on alternative energy, and that’s what you got.”

  “Nuclear energy is not an alternative to oil or gas. And there is no such thing as clean coal.”

  Canning waved his hands in a dismissive gesture. “That’s what the environmentalists all say, Brian. Please don’t tell me you drank the Kool-Aid.”

  “If you were serious about opening up the market to more alternative forms of energy, you wouldn’t have muddied the waters by lumping nuclear and coal into the mix.”

  “Brian, do you have any idea what’s at stake right now?”

  “I think I—”

  “You have no goddamned idea what’s at stake.” He still spoke calmly, but his tone silenced Brian. Canning gritted his teeth. “No idea. This country has to assert itself on the global stage. We have to take our place as an energy superpower. It’s all we have. All the shit that the environmentalists and other bleeding-heart liberals want won’t happen if we can’t maintain our position as an energy-exporting nation. Without clean coal and nuclear power to drive these systems, that’s not going to happen.”

  “This isn’t about alternatives at all, is it, Minister?”

  “What are you saying, Brian?”

  “This is about something else. It’s about expanding the tar sands.”

  “Brian, please don’t tell me you’ve strayed so far from the fold that you’ll join the radicals at Green Earth as they strangle this country’s economic growth.”

  “Why else would you push for more nuclear?” Brian spoke quietly.

  The minister stood up, and Brian snapped back to reality. “Brian, we want to find a place for alternatives in this country’s energy mix. That’s not going to happen without including all forms of nontraditional energy production. It just won’t happen.”

  Brian stood up. “You want to use nuclear power to fuel tar sands growth. You’ve been sold. So you add nuclear to the list of energies that can be considered alternative, and that way you can skate around your own requirements for renewable-energy standards for federal projects.”

  Canning stared at him. “Let me ask you this, Brian. You were at the reception last night. Did you post the video of my remarks?”

  Brian focused. “I didn’t.”

  “Who did? You were the only environmentalist in the room.”

  “I don’t know who did. Maybe one of your friends isn’t as friendly as you thought.”

  “What happened to you? You used to be with us. You used to be one of us. Now you take a page from the tactics of the fucking tree huggers. I spent half of my goddamned press conference explaining why I love democracy and don’t want to lock up environmentalists. I should have been talking about alternative energy. Is that what you want?”

  “Due respect, Minister, you shouldn’t have said it. This is the digital—”

  “Don’t lecture me about the digital age! I get that from my teenage daughters! Let me tell you something, Brian. I see you at another one of my events and I’ll make sure you never speak to another person at Natural Resources Canada as long as I’m minister. You understand? Anything that you and your Alternative Energy Group are trying to do will be dead in the water. Do you hear me? Dead. I am very disappointed in you, Brian. Very disappointed.”

  “That makes two of us who are disappointed, Minister.”

  TWELVE

  BROWNING, MONTANA. JULY 10.

  COLE BLACKWATER HAD NEVER BEEN to Browning and wished that he wasn’t there now. It was hot and dusty and he was in a hotel room that, even by his very liberal standards, qualified as a dive. After he had showered and been chaperoned by the FBI to dinner at the Junction Cafe, three of his fellow hikers had slipped past the Blackfeet tribal policeman sitting watch in his SUV and joined him in his room for a beer.

  “We’re not supposed to discuss this,” climate activist Jessica Winters said. “We get caught, there are going to be consequences.”

  “We may as well already be in jail,” responded Peter Talbot.

  �
��This is pretty much the best Browning has to offer,” said Joe Firstlight. “You should see our budget places.” He laughed, and the others smiled.

  “What do we know?” Cole sat on the edge of his bed and drank a cold Pilsner from the can.

  “They seem to be mapping out each of our movements over the last few days. They wanted to know where everybody was last night and this morning,” said Talbot. He too had a beer in his hand.

  Winters said, “It feels like a week ago.”

  “They asked about what time everybody got up and when we went to bed and who knew Brian before this hike and who was the last to see him,” said Talbot.

  “They asked me all those questions too,” Cole said. “But I just don’t see anybody in our party as responsible. I don’t see it.”

  “What about the guides?” asked Talbot. “Tad? What about this Foreman fellow?”

  “Foreman is dead too.” Winters shivered despite the stuffy room.

  “That was an accident,” said Talbot. “He must have lost his balance in that gully and fallen.”

  “He was a mountain guide. I don’t understand how he could slip and fall like that,” objected Winters.

  “It happens all the time,” responded Talbot. “I know a guide who tripped and fell down the stairs. Broke his neck.”

  “It just seems too coincidental.” Cole drank the rest of his beer and stood up to get another can. He had filled his sink with ice and put the beer in it to keep it cold. “This guy happens to be at the Two Medicine Grill when Derek needs a guide. Brian gets killed and then this guy goes off to look for what? The killer? After the rest of his party comes back, he falls and cracks his head open. Who was in his party this morning when we split up and went to look for Brian?”

  “I was,” said Winters. “And so was Mike, from the governor’s office. Derek radioed Blake, and that’s when we learned that Brian was dead.When Derek came and found us, he sent us back, and he and Blake talked for a while. Blake stayed behind to see if he could find some evidence that someone else was up there with us.”

  “The fact that he’s dead makes me think that he found it.” Cole took another long pull on his beer.