“You don’t have a passport.”
“Don’t trouble me with complications.”
FORTY-FIVE
CHEYENNE, WYOMING. SEPTEMBER 14.
ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, COLE CROSSED the border just west of where the Milk River trickled from Montana into Alberta. Cole drove Walter’s pickup truck, and he crossed illegally, without his passport, on a dirt road leading onto the Blackfeet Reservation. From there he drove south on a network of ranch roads and picked up I-15 north of Shelby. He drove down the Judith Basin at twilight and watched as the light made famous by landscape artist Charlie Russell painted the rolling hills. He slept in a Super 8 in Sheridan, Wyoming, and in the morning rose early and drove toward the state capital. By noon he was in Cheyenne.
Cole called Nancy, who was still in Ottawa. “What have you got?”
“Oh boy,” she said. “The Opposition is calling for the resignation of David Canning and Rick Turcotte. There’s nothing official yet, but it doesn’t look good for those two. Of course, more damning information is coming to light. Shortly after the trade mission to China, your Senator Thompson did a circuit through Canada and met with senior Chinese officials, along with Rick Turcotte, up in Fort McMurray. They did a tour of the tar sands and looked at possible sites for a nuclear power plant to feed the development of the tar sands.”
“Turcotte lied to my face, the prick. Brian and I talked about the possibility of nukes fueling the tar sands. I didn’t make anything of it at the time. We didn’t know that Chinese officials were involved then, just Thompson. Have you figured out what the advantage would be for China to build this instead of, say, Canada’s Nuclear Power Corporation?”
“I think it’s tit for tat. It might be a little cheaper, you know, five hundred mill, to let China build the plant over using a CANDU reactor, but the real game is about greasing China’s palm. They want to sink tens and tens of billions into the tar sands. Canada needs the investment, so we let them sell us a nuke and hold out our hand to accept more venture-capital dollars.”
“And why is Thompson involved?”
“I’m going to send you his bio; read it before you go storming into his office. When he was in the Senate, he was a big proponent of opening the energy relationship with China. It made him a bit of a pariah in his party. Everybody else was wary of a relationship, but Thompson argued that the US couldn’t turn its back on the fastest-growing energy market in the world. He knows all the players in China. Now that he’s a CEO, he’s not constrained by politics or national loyalty. He’s discovered that Canada is far more open to a business relationship with China. He wants to broker the connection between Canning and the Chinese government.”
Cole was sitting in the pickup truck in a parking lot near the Wyoming State Capitol building. “Yeah, I was just thinking that. Easier said than done.”
“Are you saying you went all that way without a plan?”
“Who, me? Never. I just haven’t put the finishing touches on it yet.”
“Cole, be careful. I doubt very much that a man like Thompson would be involved in this if there wasn’t something substantial at stake.”
Cole pulled out his laptop and collected his email and read the senator’s bio. There was a long military history in the man’s family that included all three of his sons. Cole drove to the office building that housed the headquarters of High Country Energy. He debated which approach to take. In the past he would have simply barged in and demanded answers. But if HCE was indeed involved in the death of Brian Marriott, this might not be a wise move. At the very least, he would find himself on his ass and likely under arrest for being in the country illegally. Cole parked across the street from the HCE office and felt the last vestiges of his rage-induced enthusiasm drain away. He took the keys out of the ignition and stepped out of the truck.
“So, just what exactly are you going to do, Blackwater?” he said out loud as he approached the building. “Walk in and accuse a former senator of conspiring to murder someone?” He walked into the central atrium, a spacious room that was open three stories to skylights. HCE occupied the third floor of the complex. Shunning the elevator, Cole took the stairs and at the top stepped through a door in front of a wood-paneled reception desk.
“Can I help you?” asked a woman sitting behind the desk.
Cole cleared his throat. “Hi, yes, I’m … I’d like to talk with someone about your company. About a job. I wonder if Mr. Thompson is in?”
The woman looked at Cole. He was dressed in blue jeans, a button-down shirt, and his scuffed leather jacket. His hair, while clean, fell in a mess of dark curls over his forehead. “I don’t think you want to talk with Senator Thompson,” the receptionist said. “Our VP of human resources is Tom Oxford. He might have a moment to see you.” She reached for her phone.
“No, I’d really like to see Mr. Thompson. A friend of mine, Rick Turcotte, told me to see him personally.”
“Mr. Thompson isn’t in the office today or this week, in fact. I’ll ring Mr. Oxford. Sorry, your name is … ?”
“Blackwater. Cole Blackwater.”
Cole sat for what seemed like an unreasonably long time before a man in tan slacks and an immaculate white shirt appeared at the door. “Mr. Blackwater?” He had a thick western drawl.
Cole stood and extended his hand. “Yes, sir. Mr. Oxford?”
“That’s right. Tammy says you’re looking for a job? We normally hire through an agency.”
“Well, more a career. I’m considering a move from Alberta to Wyoming. I just thought I’d stop in and ask you a few questions.”
“Sure. Come on back. Can I get you anything?”
“No thanks.” Cole followed Oxford through the hallways to his office.
“Is that Mr. Thompson’s office there?” Cole pointed to a corner room.
“Sure. But the senator isn’t in right now.”
“I notice everybody calls him senator.”
“Yeah, once you’ve been in the big house, you hang on to the credentials. Now, what kind of career move are you thinking about?”
“Well, right now I work for an energy company called Nexus. We do alternatives.” Cole sat down when Oxford pointed to a club chair. Oxford remained standing, leaning back on his desk. “I thought I’d look around down here and see who has a corporate social responsibility platform and offer my services. What do you guys do in terms of good corporate citizenship?”
Oxford was bobbing his head up and down rhythmically. “We have a good CSR strategy. We make regular investments in the communities where we work. We follow the guidelines of whatever country we’re working in to the letter.”
“What countries do you work in?”
“Well, here in the US, of course. And Canada. We’re also developing a Latin American profile. And we’re looking at a play in the Middle East, though I’ve got to tell you, that’s a dicey place to do business.”
“What about Asia?”
“Sure, we consider Asia a principal market, but not a source.”
“What have you got going on in Canada? Maybe I could be of some help there?”
“We’re just exploring those options right now. There are both conventional and nonconventional opportunities there.”
“Tar sands? What’s your stake?”
“We don’t have one yet. We’re looking at a partnership right now.”
“With whom?”
“Well, I’m not really at liberty to say.”
“I see. What about in Montana?”
“We’re partnering with the Blackfeet on a gas operation. We’ll see how it turns out.”
“What are you doing about the environment in those cases?”
“As I said, Mr. Blackwater, we’re doing everything the law requires. We’re a good corporate citizen.”
“Mr. Oxford, I noticed on the Internet that there was some controversy when you tried to make a play for a gas operation in the Green River basin.” Oxford didn’t say anything. “Someone’s house g
ot burned down?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“An activist in Jackson Hole who opposed HCE fracking in the Green River basin. His house got burned down. Some say that your company was behind that?”
Oxford smiled.
“What’s funny?” asked Cole.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to bring that up.” Oxford looked at his watch. “Four minutes. You showed great restraint, Mr. Blackwater.” Oxford reached over and turned his computer monitor so that Cole could see it: Cole’s consulting web page was open.
“You haven’t answered the question, Mr. Oxford.”
“And I don’t intend to. You come in here and think that I’m not going to look you up? Nobody walks in off the street and asks about a job. You’re trying to dig up some dirt. You’ve come to the wrong place.”
“Have you heard of the Alternative Energy Group?”
“No.”
“You sure? Brian Marriott?”
“I have no idea who that is. Another environmentalist, I assume.”
“He was murdered in Glacier National Park in July. I think he was poking his finger in your Senator Thompson’s eye over something you’re working on. Whatever it was, your boss didn’t like it and had him killed.”
Oxford picked up the phone and pressed a number. “Yes, Tammy, would you please call the sheriff’s office and ask that they send a car? Thank you.” He hung up.
Cole stood up. “That won’t be necessary. I’m going. But you can tell your boss this.” Cole stepped close to Oxford. “I’m coming for him. I know what’s going on.”
Oxford just smiled. “I’m sure Senator Thompson will be very pleased to hear it.”
Cole walked out of the office and made for the stairs. He reached the street, found Walter’s truck, and quickly drove around the block. He saw a sheriff’s deputy pull up in front of the building as he did.
FORTY-SIX
CASPER, WYOMING. SEPTEMBER 14.
COLE ROCKETED NORTH, OUT OF the city. He checked his rearview mirror often; the sheriff’s deputy who had arrived at the HCE office as he was leaving hadn’t followed him. It was almost eight o’clock when he reached the outskirts of Casper. He knew he could keep driving, but he was worn out and hungry. He decided to take the exit on the south side of the city and quickly found a respectable-looking motel with the added bonus of a roadhouse-style tavern next door. He checked in, using his credit card to pay for the room, then called Nancy and told her about his conversation with the HCE executive.
“What did you expect? That you’d get to see Thompson and he’d confess to conspiracy to commit murder? Look, head back home. Leave the investigation to the RCMP and the FBI.”
“Are you kidding me? I leave this to the feds and the horsemen and they are never going to find out who framed me and who whacked Brian! I’m going to hook up with Joe Firstlight tomorrow and see what is going on with the band council and HCE. Then I’m going to talk with Derek McGrath and see what I can learn from him. He’s out in East Glacier, where these bastards want to drill. And after that I’m going back to Calgary. My guess is that someone in that city is involved in this mess up in the tar sands. I’m going to start with Gerry Derganc and nail his ass to the wall on this. I’m going to get some answers.”
Nancy was quiet for a long time. “Cole, are you hearing yourself on this? You’re letting your anger get the better of you.”
Cole opened his mouth to vent more, but stopped himself. He drew a deep breath. “You’re right. Okay. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m going to stick around Ottawa for another day or so and see if Canning and Turcotte survive this whole debacle. I wish you were here. The whole place is coming unglued over this.”
“I wish I was there too. I’m in some lonesome truck stop outside of Casper, Wyoming.”
“You sound like you’re in a cowboy song.”
“Feel like it.”
“Cole, it’s okay. It’s alright to be angry. Just keep it together. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I’m going to get a bite to eat and hit the hay. I want to be up and at it before sunrise. It’s ten hours to Browning. I can get there by midafternoon and see Joe if I get going early.”
“Call me in the morning?”
“I will.”
They hung up, and Cole lay on the bed for a while. Then he pulled himself to sitting, rubbed his aching shoulder, and said, “Alright, Blackwater, you heard the lady. Keep it together.” He went out the door and walked across the parking lot to the Casper Mountain Bar and Grill. The place was loud, with a jukebox playing a selection of Darius Rucker and Corb Lund tunes. Several dozen patrons sat at the bar and at round tables in the dimly lit room. Cole scanned the joint carefully and, seeing no trouble, went to a back corner and sat down where he could watch the door. A waitress in tight jeans and a cut-off shirt approached, and he admonished himself in a preemptive strike against his natural urge to flirt. He ordered a beer and a burger with salad on the side and waited for his food.
When his meal came, he ordered a second beer. There was a strong desire within him to order an Irish whiskey, but he decided against it. He asked for his bill, and while his server went off to print it, he stood up and walked stiffly to the washroom. As he stood at the urinal, he heard the door open behind him, and he felt his shoulders tense. He finished urinating, zipped his fly, and turned toward the sink, but he never made it. A man in a black jacket closed in on him, and before Cole could respond, a fist mashed his face so hard that he stumbled backward and blacked out. He felt his legs go out from under him and the back of his head hit the top of the urinal.
When he was able to focus again, there were two sets of legs before him; someone reached down and started to pick him up. He shook his head as if to clear it and was able to see the face in front of him. He struggled, and the man who was lifting him laughed. Cole felt the wound in his shoulder tearing and he grimaced, but he managed to get his right hand free and quickly threw a jab at the man. His assailant shifted his weight quickly, and Cole’s punch connected with the side of the man’s head and hurt Cole more than his attacker. The man threw him across the bathroom and he collided with the hand dryer on the wall and then fell to the floor once more. Before Cole knew what was happening, the man had him by the collar again and was throwing him into the toilet stall. The door crashed open and Cole slammed into the back wall and fell onto the bowl. He felt the heat of his own blood gushing from his face.
The man picked him up again. Cole struggled to free himself, but his attacker was strong and uninjured, and he pinned Cole’s arms to his sides. Cole couldn’t see him—the man was facing away from him—but he could smell something that reminded him of his father—Brut cologne?—mixed with the stench of cigarette smoke from the man’s clothing. The second man, who had been blocking the door, approached now.
“Mr. Blackwater,” he said. “I think it would be very wise for you to settle down. You’re going to hurt yourself if you don’t.” He had dark hair and was smaller than the man who was holding Cole, but not by much.
“Who the fuck are you?” demanded Cole. “What do you want?”
“We don’t want anything. But you seem to want a great deal.”
Cole kicked the smaller man as hard as he could. His foot connected with the man’s groin, and the man buckled over and fell to the floor. As he did, Cole tried to twist himself free from the viselike grip of the man who held him. With the searing pain in his shoulder, he wasn’t able to move. The man on the floor was trying to speak between gasps.
“Fuck … him … up,” he said. That’s when the man holding Cole threw him across the bathroom into the urinal. Cole heard the crack of his own head connecting with the porcelain, and then he crumpled unconscious to the floor.
FORTY-SEVEN
CASPER, WYOMING. SEPTEMBER 14.
“MR. BLACKWATER.” COLE SWAM UP through the miasma of unconsciousness. “Mr. Blackwater.” Someone was slapp
ing his face.
Cole was propped up in a straight-backed chair next to the wall in his hotel room. He blinked and shook his head, and the room came into focus. He felt a hot agony in his shoulder and his head felt as if it had come unattached from his neck.
The two men who had beaten him in the bathroom were there; the bigger of the two was standing next to him. The other man was sitting on Cole’s bed, hunched over, face white, obviously still aching from the kick to the groin. A third man was in the room. He was wearing a tan sports coat and jeans, with a broad-brimmed cowboy hat set on his head. He had a wide thin mouth of perfect teeth and smooth, almost translucent skin. “Mr. Blackwater. Welcome back.”
Cole wasn’t bound in any way, but when he tried to stand, the man next to him put a hand on his injured shoulder and pushed him back down. Cole winced and thought he might vomit. “You’re Lester Thompson.”
“I am. I understand that you want a conversation.”
“You always bring your muscle to a friendly chat?”
“I don’t think any conversation I could have with you would be friendly, Mr. Blackwater. You’re not the friendly sort. I’m here to tell you one thing, and one thing only, Mr. Blackwater. I had nothing to do with your friend’s death. Nothing. I don’t really care if you believe me. That doesn’t matter. But I didn’t. And that’s all there is to it.”
“If you didn’t have anything to do with it, why beat me up?”
Thompson was pacing back and forth between Cole and the bed. “A man in my position can’t afford not to be clear. If you persist in your little rogue investigation, your little witch hunt, you’re going to get hurt. Physically, and in other ways that you couldn’t even imagine.”
Cole could imagine a lot of ways that Thompson could hurt him, and they all went through his mind at once. “Brian tripped some alarm. Maybe it’s this thing with the nukes in Fort McMurray. Maybe the Blackfeet—”
“Mr. Blackwater.” Thompson held up a hand. “Please, stop. You’re not going to ferret anything out of me. There is simply nothing you can do that will cause me to trip up and tell you something that I shouldn’t.”
The Glacier Gallows Page 20