The Glacier Gallows

by Stephen Legault

  “Do you think it would be a stretch for one of those players to also try and build a nuclear plant?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s a very serious discussion.”

  “I really appreciate your time.” Nancy stood. She felt a sense of urgency. She wondered just how serious the discussion was.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  GLACIER NATIONAL PARK, MONTANA. SEPTEMBER 9.

  COLE AND WALTER LOOKED AT the wreckage of their camp. “Where are we going to go?” said Cole. “It’s almost eight o’clock. It will be dark soon.”

  “Cole, I think whoever did this is trying to flush us out into the open. We’re sitting ducks here.”

  “But Walter, we don’t have any food, no water. I don’t even have a headlamp; mine was in the tent.” Cole sounded panicky.

  “I’ve got enough Power Bars in my bag to get us through the night. I’ve also got water—at least, enough to last us until we find some on the trail. And I’ve got a headlamp in my bag. We’re okay.”

  Cole looked around at the open plateau. As the sun set, the whole earth looked like it had been smeared with blood. What had been a peaceful alpine paradise that morning felt forbidding and dangerous. “Alright. Where to?”

  “Down.”

  Cole drew a deep breath. “But where? Listen, if this were my set-up, I’d be waiting along the route by Crypt Lake.” He sounded calmer.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Hell, we might have nearly sprung their trap this afternoon.”

  “How else do we get down?”

  “The way you came up when you were with Derek McGrath and his guides. The way you came up with Brian. It’s a good route. We can do it in the dark.”

  “With one headlamp?”

  “We’ll go slow.”

  “It’s a hell of a long way. It was a four-day hike, remember?”

  “That’s to get all the way to Many Glacier. But we can get to the Belly River a lot faster. From there it’s a simple walk out to the border and Highway 6.”

  “I’m sure the authorities will be happy to see me.”

  “You brought your passport, didn’t you?”

  “It was in the tent.”

  “That might complicate things.”

  THEY WALKED ALL night. Cole felt as if he had a target on his back. Walter only turned his headlamp on when they were in steep terrain or crossing a talus slope. They tried his iPhone from time to time to see if they could get a cell signal but to no avail. Around midnight the moon rose, and by 4:00 AM, Cole, though dog-tired, had grown accustomed to the faint light and could see where he was going. By sunrise he was tripping on every second step.

  “Let’s rest here,” said Walter. They were walking through thick brush at the junction of two branches of the Belly River.

  “Where are we?”

  “We’re about an hour or two from the main stem of the middle fork of the Belly River. From there it’s about four hours to the road. We’re in Canada right now. I think you can stop worrying about your passport.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “The trees here are more polite. Plus we just walked through a little clear-cut. That was the border.”

  “Not much difference from one side to the other, is there?”

  “That’s the whole reason the International Peace Park is so important.”

  “I’m going to sleep under that tree. You think it’s safe?”

  “Oh yeah. I think that tree is perfectly safe.”

  “You know—”

  “Get some rest. I’m too wired to sleep right now. I’ll wake you up in a couple of hours. We should be in Waterton for supper.”

  THEY HITCHED A ride with a family of tourists into Waterton and collected Walter’s truck from the boat ramp at Waterton Lake, then drove immediately to the Thirsty Bear Saloon. They ordered a pitcher of beer, a double order of buffalo wings, and hamburgers with fries. Cole looked over his shoulder throughout the meal.

  “We’re okay here,” Walter said. He drank deeply from his glass of beer.

  “Maybe.” Cole, eating wings and licking his fingers, continued to watch the tourists.

  “Do you want to call the RCMP?” asked Walter.

  “I don’t know. Inspector Reimer’s had it in for me since the whole mess in Oracle two years ago.”

  Walter drank the rest of his glass of beer. “I know someone in the RCMP forensics lab. I went through investigative-procedure class with him when I did my law-enforcement training a few years back. I can call and see if I still have any pull.”

  “Do it. I think the more we keep this out of the spotlight, the better.”

  “Alright. I’ll call first thing in the morning. We can courier the baggie to Ottawa from Claresholm. You can arrange to meet Reimer there if that’s what you decide to do.”

  They drove back through the dark to the Porcupine Hills. Dorothy Blackwater was awake when they got in, but they didn’t tell her what they had found or about their ransacked camp.

  Cole noticed, however, that Walter locked the door to the house, something he had never done before. “I couldn’t remember if we put the locks on that door,” he said when he saw Cole looking at him.

  Walter waited for Cole to go to bed before he went to the basement and unlocked the gun cabinet. He took out his 12-gauge Remington shotgun, removed the trigger lock, and took down a case of shells.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  VANCOUVER, BC. SEPTEMBER 9.

  “WHAT HAVE YOU GOT FOR today’s story budget?” asked Frank Pesh. He leaned over the divider that separated Nancy Webber’s cubicle from a hundred others.

  Nancy looked up from her computer. She had a page open about nuclear power and the tar sands. It was the kind of thing she would have chalked up to conspiracy-theory talk before her meeting with Jessica Winters. “Nothing yet. I’m just getting back up to speed.”

  “Tomorrow, this time”—Frank tapped his watch—“I want twelve inches. Time to get back in the game, Nancy.”

  Nancy watched him walk to his office. She turned back to her computer and continued to read. She was about to pick up the phone to start making calls on the Vancouver municipal election primaries when her cell rang. She answered.

  “Nancy, its Nik Stanos calling.”

  “Nicolas, how are you?”

  “I’m fine. Listen, I’m calling about the Freedom of Information request I put in on your behalf.”

  “Didn’t get much, did we?”

  “Just the opposite. We got a lot. I mean, a lot. About ten thousand pages.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, they do this sometimes. Rather than stonewalling, they try to drown you. There’s a room in a federal building across the river in Gatineau that is pretty much full of files.”

  “Have you looked at them?”

  “Only long enough to know that this is a bigger job than I signed on for. I just don’t have the time.”

  “This could be big.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know yet. But there’s something going on. First Cabinet doesn’t impose its usual controls on an extradition request, and now I think Natural Resources Canada is opening up the nuclear power industry to foreign markets. Somehow this is all connected, and the answer might be in that stack of paper.”

  Nancy could hear Stanos breathing on the other end of the phone. “Can you come out here?” he asked finally. “You could pay a student to go through this mess. It would be about a week’s work. Or you could use that money and get on a plane and come here yourself and see what you’ve got. I’ll give you one day of my time, on the house, for old times’ sake. I made a lot of dough off you when you were at the Globe.”

  Nancy tapped her fingers on her desk. “Sure,” she said after a moment. “I’ll be there on Monday.”

  “I’ll set something up for Tuesday, then.”

  Nancy hung up the phone. She looked toward Frank Pesh’s office. “What’s one more week?” she said out loud.

  “WHAT HAPPENED?” NANCY was wal
king along Burrard Street toward her English Bay apartment.

  Cole told her the story. “I called this morning and left a message for Reimer. I’m going to try and meet her in Claresholm. Perry said that he would come down for the conversation if I could set it up.”

  “I got a call from Nicolas Stanos, in Ottawa,” and Nancy explained.

  “If you find something, you could use it to confront the minister. Parliament is set to resume this week. This could be big news.”

  “I thought of that. Pesh gave me a week to run with this. With pay.”

  “Ms. Write Your Own Ticket these days, aren’t you?”

  “Why don’t you come to Ottawa? It would be like old times.”

  “Are you kidding me? The old times got both of us fired. It took you and me four years to see eye to eye again.”

  “Okay, it would be better than old times. Think about it, Cole.”

  “Alright.”

  “And think about Ottawa.”

  “I always am.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  CLARESHOLM, ALBERTA. SEPTEMBER 11.

  PERRY GILBERT, COLE, AND WALTER Blackwater sat in Roy’s Place with Inspector Reimer.

  Perry spoke first. “The purpose of this meeting is to ascertain the status of your investigation into the attempted murder of my client, and your ongoing investigation into the murders of five other people. In exchange for this information, we’re prepared to share information that has come to light in the past week.”

  Reimer cleared her throat. “As I told you before, this is a joint investigation between the RCMP and the FBI. There is very little we can tell you, Mr. Blackwater. I’m here because you told me you had information that might be helpful.”

  “This is a two-way street.”

  “You’re doing your thing again, aren’t you?”

  “What thing is that, Inspector?”

  “You’re playing private eye.”

  “Goddamned right I am!” Cole said. “Someone has got to figure out what led to Brian’s murder.”

  “We’re closing in.”

  “No you’re not, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Reimer started to stand.

  “We went back to the crime scene,” said Walter. Reimer sat back down. He told her their story.

  “We’ve been over that site with a fine-tooth comb. RCMP, FBI, and the National Park Service Special Investigator,” said Reimer.

  “You missed something.” Cole decided to play his hand.

  “What?”

  “Tell me why you dropped the charges. You tell me and I’ll tell you.”

  “Mr. Blackwater, you are dangerously close to being charged with obstruction of justice right now.”

  “Then arrest me.” Cole held out his hands to invite a pair of handcuffs; Reimer did nothing. “Why did you drop the charges? What did you learn?”

  Reimer was silent for so long that Cole nearly started to speak again, but he let the silence hang. His patience paid off.

  “We found out that someone tried to set you up for the purchase of the pistol, the one you allegedly bought from Charlie Crowfoot,” Reimer said. “We don’t have a positive identification. The FBI has located two friends of Mr. Crowfoot who reported that someone matching the description of Blake Foreman was in contact with Mr. Crowfoot around the time he allegedly sold you the gun. These men have told us that this man paid Mr. Crowfoot to lie to the police about the gun.”

  “How did you determine that?” Perry was curious.

  “The FBI questioned half of Browning. The theory that you had bought the gun bugged some people, including Special Agent McCallum. They went at this from another angle. They started flashing photos around town and found out that before you arrived in Browning, someone matching Blake Foreman’s ID had been seen in town by associates of Mr. Crowfoot. Mr. Crowfoot had then been bragging to his friends that all he had to do for a cool grand was tell anybody who came asking that he had sold you a piece. Easy money.”

  “But it got him killed.”

  “We don’t know that. The US Marshals Service maintains that his death was a suicide. We learned that someone matching Foreman’s description had set him up. Our theory went to hell. McCallum couldn’t link you to the suspected murder weapon, so the DA dropped the extradition request. We dropped the option to charge you in Canada. End of story. I think I’ve held up my end of this bargain, Mr. Blackwater. What have you got for me?”

  Walter produced a large ziplock bag. Inside was a smaller bag, along with some pink fibers. He handed it to Reimer. She pulled a pair of white plastic gloves from her pocket and put them on. She opened the bag and examined the contents. “What’s this fiber?”

  “It’s from a climbing rope,” said Walter. “My guess is that your lab should be able to isolate the maker of the fiber and determine what brand of rope it’s from. That might help narrow it down.”

  “How do you think this might be connected?” asked Reimer.

  “The baggie was under a rock on a ledge below where the team was camped the night that Marriott was killed,” answered Walter. “The rope fiber was halfway up the cliff, about fifty feet below the ridge. I think that whoever killed Brian Marriott was bivouacked there the night before. I guess it’s possible that Foreman slipped out of camp and alerted the killer that Brian would be out in the open and that he should get ready. The killer then used a rope that Foreman fixed to ascend the slope. He hid in the dark until Foreman lured Brian out to the edge of the cliff, then popped him.”

  “But Foreman is dead.” Cole put his head in his hands. “There’s no way to prove any of this.”

  “No, there isn’t. But this might help.” Reimer held up the baggie.

  “I’ve also got this,” said Walter, showing Reimer his cell phone. The image of the boot print was on the screen.

  “Can you send me this?” she asked.

  “Sure. It’s size ten, Vibram sole. Pretty common.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I had on my feet!” said Cole.

  “Not helpful, Cole,” said Perry.

  PERRY WENT TO THE PARKING lot to make a phone call, and Walter went to the bathroom. Cole and Inspector Reimer sat in awkward silence at the table. Cole played with an empty plastic cream container. Reimer spoke first. “Funny how we keep going around in circles, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not sure funny is the word I’d use.”

  “I just think it’s a small world. First we have this whole thing in Oracle. That was a mess. Then last year the thing with Nancy and your father. Now here we are again. It’s just too damn small a world.”

  Cole stopped playing with the creamer. “What do you mean, the thing with Nancy and my father?”

  Reimer paused. “When Nancy was here last spring, looking into what happened with your father.”

  “How do you know about my father?”

  “I think I’ve overstepped here,” said Reimer.

  “It’s too late for that now.” Cole could feel his throat constricting, his vision narrowing.

  “Ms. Webber was obviously worried about you.” Reimer dropped the familiar tone. “She was trying to help. She asked me what I knew about your father’s death. I told her what I could. I thought it would help her help you. That’s all.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I HAVE TO get up to Calgary to see about reporting my passport lost, stolen, or whatever.” Cole was standing with Walter and Perry in the parking lot after Reimer had left for Lethbridge. He was still struggling to slow his racing heart after his final conversation with Inspector Reimer.

  “You want me to drive you?” Perry was leaning on his car. The driver’s-side door had been replaced. There were still some dents in the front quarter panel that had to be banged out.

  “No. I need to get some stuff.”

  “To go to the passport office?” asked Perry.

  “To go to Ottawa.”

  COLE AND WALTER were just outside Claresholm, heading into the Porcupine Hills, when his cell phone ra
ng. Cole looked at the call display. He didn’t recognize the number, but the area code was an Ottawa exchange. He thought maybe Nancy had gone early. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Blackwater, my name is Gerry Derganc. I was a friend of Brian Marriott’s. I wonder if you might have time to chat. I’m in Calgary. I’m going to be here through the weekend. I wonder if we could meet in person.”

  “What’s this about, Mr… . ?”

  “Derganc. I’d rather not talk on the phone. I think I know what got Brian killed.”

  FORTY

  CALGARY, ALBERTA. SEPTEMBER 11.

  “YOU WANT TO MEET WHERE?” asked Cole.

  “The zoo,” said Gerry Derganc. “I’m taking my kids. I can duck out while they watch the nature show on hippos and you and I can chat. I’m only here on weekends, and I promised my wife no work during family time.” They agreed to meet at two o’clock by the African pavilion.

  Cole was there early and strolled around the grounds for half an hour before meeting Derganc, a middle-aged man with two girls. The girls sat on the bleachers overlooking the hippo pool while Cole and Gerry retreated to a quiet spot near the doors that led outside. Gerry seemed nervous.

  “I’ve read the newspaper stories, Mr. Blackwater. I know what happened to you. And I know what happened to Brian.”

  “What did you want to tell me about?”

  The man took a breath and seemed to calm down. Behind them, a pen of warthogs snuffled in the dirt. “I warned him. Brian, I warned him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When he was poking around with this. Last winter and in the spring. I warned him that he was getting in too deep.”

  “Slow down. What exactly did you warn Brian about?”

  “I have Brian’s old job at the Petroleum Resources Group. Before this I worked for an oil services company. We did a project down in the Green River basin last year, in Wyoming. Huge project, hundreds of wells. Hydraulic fracturing.

  “During that project there was a lot of opposition. People said we were poisoning the rivers. Causing earthquakes. Maybe we were. I don’t know anymore. Maybe Brian was right to get out when he did. This business isn’t what it used to be—”