The Glacier Gallows

by Stephen Legault

  “Why don’t you just kill me?”

  “As I’ve said, I’m not in the killing business.”

  “But all those people. Brian, Charlie Crowfoot, the Calgary cop?”

  “Not my doing, Mr. Blackwater.”

  “You’re a liar,” said Cole. Thompson shook his head; his smile betrayed a sense of pity. Cole continued, “If you’re not responsible, why the heavy-handed tactics? Why send these meatheads to beat the shit out of me?”

  “You’re a hardheaded fellow who seems to need a wake-up call. While I have done nothing wrong in the matter of Mr. Marriott, you have to understand that my legitimate business interests are now under unnecessary scrutiny as a result of his, and your, crusading. This is unacceptable. You’re going to have to take my word that if you continue to try and obstruct my endeavors, there will be very serious consequences.”

  Cole watched as Thompson straightened his Stetson. He noticed the ring on Thompson’s right hand. It was emblazoned with an emblem that Cole couldn’t quite discern, but the eagle and sword made him think it had something to do with the military.

  “Did you serve in the armed forces before you went into politics?”

  “I did, 1964 to 1968. Vietnam.”

  “We don’t have the tradition in Canada of military service that you do in the States. I guess it’s because we don’t fight as many wars.”

  “Someone has to keep order,” said Thompson.

  “And you have a son in the armed forces.”

  Thompson smiled. “I do. My youngest. My older boys both served and have gotten on with their lives. If you think you’re being clever, Mr. Blackwater, this is all a matter of public record.”

  “Where is your youngest stationed now? He’s a specialist—”

  “Mr. Blackwater, our time here is nearly up. I’ve got to be going. My sons have nothing to do with this conversation.”

  “It’s just that—”

  “Sarah’s favorite ice cream flavor is Rocky Road.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Rocky Road. When you last took her for ice cream, she had Rocky Road. She doesn’t like it when you drop her off at her mother’s and you and Jennifer Polson fight.”

  Cole was halfway across the room before either of Thompson’s muscle men could move. But when they did, they were swift and decisive. The larger man delivered a blow that Cole decided must have been enhanced by a roll of quarters in his hand. It stopped him in mid-air. A thick rope of blood fell across the bed. Cole hit the floor like a sack of wet laundry.

  Thompson remained standing. “You’re not going to go to the police. You don’t have a passport, and even though you’ve been cleared of the charges in the case of Mr. Marriott, you would be shown no leniency whatsoever for being in this country illegally. I know this for a fact. You’d be arrested, and it would be your word against mine, and in this part of the world, my word is that of God. You would serve the maximum period of incarceration for entering the US without a passport, and it would be a very long time before you got to have Rocky Road ice cream with that lovely little girl of yours.

  “Drop your crusade. Go back to Vancouver. Do your little tidal-power projects. Help your friend solve homelessness. Show Nancy Webber a nice time. Leave my business in the tar sands be, and you and I will never see one another again. There will be plenty of days with Sarah for ice cream and tai chi in the park. Keep this up, and you will find that the way I do business is uncompromising, Mr. Blackwater. Do not make this more difficult on yourself than it already has been.” Thompson tipped his hat to Cole as he stepped around him.

  Cole watched Thompson step out into the night, followed by his two goons. None of them looked back. The dark-haired man closed the door behind them, and shortly after that Cole heard a car drive away. After a minute he stood up and shakily went to the bathroom to inspect the damage to his face. His mouth was still bleeding, and he thought that maybe he had one or even two loose teeth. His lip was split in two places. He had a cut on his forehead from where he’d connected with the urinal. It would need to be attended to. But that would have to wait. With one of the motel’s towels over his bleeding mouth, he went and sat on the bed and picked up the phone. While he was waiting for Sarah’s mother, Jennifer Polson, to pick up the phone, he felt some of the pieces of the puzzle snapping into place.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  CASPER, WYOMING. SEPTEMBER 15.

  HE HAD A LONG WAIT in the Mountain View Regional Hospital. He had to provide his name, driver’s license information, and credit card in order to receive medical attention but was able to avoid having to surrender his nonexistent passport. It was around 4:00 AM when he got back to his hotel. He had sutures in his lip and forehead and a bruising medical bill. Cole slept for a few hours and by 8:00 AM was driving north again, his head aching and his shoulder feeling like he was being slowly, repeatedly stabbed.

  Once he was on the road, he called Nancy and told her everything that had happened. After the expected protest, and her pleading that he get back to Canada where she and Walter could keep an eye on him, they settled down to business. “So I know what the motivation was,” he said.

  “And what is that?”

  “The tar sands. The nuclear plant. Thompson let it slip. He told me to stay out of his business, and he used that example specifically.”

  “I don’t know if that counts as self-incrimination.”

  “It means we’re close. These guys had to be watching me before we went on the hike last summer. Sarah and I went for ice cream the day before I left, remember? I called Jennifer last night. I caught some serious hell, but I think they are safe enough. Jennifer and Sarah were heading out of town for a few days anyway.”

  “You called your ex last night, but not me?”

  “Don’t start on me, Webber. I think we ought to assume that this guy knows all about me. I think he can even monitor my credit card. How else would he have known where to find me last night?”

  “Alright, what’s next?”

  “I’m still on track to get to Browning this afternoon. I don’t think I need to spend too much time with Joe, given that we can dismiss the funny business with the Blackfeet Tribal Council as the motive for the murder. Instead, I’m going to head straight to East Glacier and talk with Derek and see what more I can learn about the two dead guides.”

  “You know, if Lester Thompson is responsible for this, he could have hired just about anybody to do it. I mean, the guy could have access to crime organizations that you and I only read about in cheap paperbacks.”

  “Something tells me he’s keeping things closer to his chest than that. I told you about the ring, right?”

  “No, what about a ring?”

  “Sorry, my head is aching like a bitch right now.”

  “You should see a doctor.”

  “I did. A mild concussion. Thompson was wearing this ring. Some kind of military emblem on it. Like a fraternity thing. I wonder if this all runs in the family. I can’t help but wonder where exactly Senator Thompson’s son is right now.”

  “We know one of them is considering the gubernatorial race next year; the second one just got out of the military. I don’t know about the third boy. I’ll see what I can find.” Nancy sounded pessimistic about their chances.

  “What’s happening in Ottawa?”

  “Well,” and Nancy sounded a more positive note, “it looks as if there is going to be a special session of the Natural Resources Committee on Monday. The minister is going to appear. The Opposition wants his head on a stake. Also, a motion has been put on the agenda to have Rick Turcotte officially booted from the committee.”

  “Has the RCMP gotten involved?”

  “Not yet. I’ve handed a file over to the detachment here, and I’ve been on the phone with Reimer a lot. They’re taking this seriously, but things are moving very slowly. With three police forces involved, there is a lot of conference time that is bogging down the investigation.”

  “Do you think I sh
ould go to Special Agent McCallum with what Thompson told me?”

  “Wait until you’re back in Canada and then call Reimer. Oh, and I almost forgot with all the excitement: remember my hacker friend in Vancouver was looking into those emails sent to Brian? The death threats? She got a hit. It would appear as though the same person who sent the death threat to Brian sent the message to Derek McGrath telling him that Chip Prescott wouldn’t be showing up for work.”

  “Did she give you a name?”

  “Nothing. Just an IP address linked to a Google account. But she did give me a location in Browning. An Internet café. It’s attached to a video-rental place.”

  “Great. Just about anybody involved with this could have set that up.”

  “I’ve turned that over to the RCMP. I think Reimer said that McCallum would case the joint, so if you’re in Browning today, keep your eyes open.”

  “I will.”

  They disconnected, and Cole drove north and turned off the Interstate at Great Falls. He stopped to get something to eat and realized that Great Falls was where Charlie Crowfoot allegedly committed suicide. When he was done eating, he stood up, hurried back to Walter’s truck, and drove to the detention center. He pulled into the parking lot and sat in the truck for ten minutes. He looked at himself in the rearview mirror. He looked like he felt: a bloody mess.

  Cole got out of the truck, walked across the parking lot, and went into the public reception area. He presented himself at the counter. “Can I help you?” asked a man in uniform.

  “My name is Cole Blackwater. I wonder if I might speak to somebody about the death of Charlie Crowfoot?”

  “You with the press?”

  “No. I’m just a citizen. Mr. Crowfoot was a friend, and I’d like to see about providing some comfort to his family.”

  “Well, his family has already been down to collect his things.”

  “Not material comfort. I just have a few questions. Do you mind if I talk with someone?”

  The man picked up a phone and said a few words and hung up. “Have a seat. Someone will be right with you.”

  Fifteen minutes passed and finally a man in a law-enforcement uniform appeared and walked over to Cole. “What the hell happened to you?” he asked when Cole stood up.

  “Disagreement in a bar.”

  “Looks like the bar won.”

  “In a bar, not with a bar.”

  “Sergeant Dale Johnson, US Marshals. I really can’t talk with anybody about Mr. Crowfoot.”

  “Sergeant Johnson, I am the man who was arrested for the murder of Brian Marriott. Mr. Crowfoot allegedly sold me the weapon that was used to kill Mr. Marriott.”

  They sat at Johnson’s desk and drank coffee. Cole said, “My question is simple: who had access to Mr. Crowfoot before his death?”

  “The FBI asked all these questions. You think you’re going to come up with something they didn’t?”

  “Probably not,” Cole lied. “But given the state of things, it couldn’t hurt.”

  “Could get me fired.”

  “That’s a chance I’m willing to take,” cracked Cole.

  Johnson laughed. “That’s mightily good of you. There were a dozen guards on that night. All of them have been run through the FBI’s database for known affiliations. Special Agent McCallum has interviewed them all. They all say the same thing. Crowfoot smuggled a length of cord in with him when he was taken into custody. He got it from his pants and into his jumpsuit. It was a very thin piece, maybe an eighth of an inch. The Evidence Response Team at the FBI called it ‘utility cord’; it’s made from the same stuff that climbing rope is made from. It was just long enough that he could loop it over the top of the door when it was being closed. Our guard didn’t notice it. Mr. Crowfoot then tied off the other end in a noose, slipped it around his neck, and suffocated himself.”

  “That is a hell of a way to go. You make it sound like he was planning to kill himself when he went in.”

  “It does seem that way.”

  “But we know now that he had nothing to do with Brian Marriott’s death. He didn’t sell me a gun. He was set up. Why would he do that?”

  “Beats me. The FBI is handling this now,” said Johnson dejectedly.

  “Did anybody come to see him while he was here?”

  “He had a few visitors.” Johnson read from a file open in front of him. “His mother and sister came down to see him. His lawyer, a public defender supplied by the BIA. And a former employer, a man named McGrath.”

  “Derek McGrath?”

  “You know him?”

  “Sure. His company guided the trip that Brian and I were on when Brian was killed.”

  “Well, this Crowfoot kid worked for Derek the last two summers.”

  “Not as a guide.”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

  Cole intended to ask. This was news to him. “Did any of these people give Crowfoot anything?”

  “No. That is strictly forbidden.”

  “Not even a note, or a letter?”

  Johnson scanned the file. “I don’t see anything on the personal-effects list. If they did, it would likely have been returned when his mother and sister came back to collect his effects.”

  Cole stood up and offered his hand. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it. I mean that—don’t tell anybody you and I had this conversation, please. I’m feeling pretty busted up about losing someone on my watch. If this helps, you didn’t hear it from me.”

  WHEN COLE LEFT the detention center, he noticed, for the first time since leaving Wyoming, that he was being followed.

  COLE GOT CELL-PHONE reception again when he got closer to Browning. He called Joe Firstlight. “Joe, it’s Cole.”

  “Oki, Cole.”

  “Oki. I’m just coming into town, Joe. I wonder if I could buy you dinner at the Junction.”

  “Sure, Cole. What time?”

  “About an hour from now. I have to see someone first.”

  JOE FIRSTLIGHT HAD given Cole directions to Charlie Crowfoot’s house. In the fading light, Cole drove the back streets of Browning. It took some time for him to find the house that Joe had described, and as he searched he became convinced that, despite his many years working in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside, he had never seen poverty like what existed on the Blackfeet Reservation. He understood why so many people were so desperate for the few jobs that the fracking operations would bring. He parked in front of a dirty white trailer whose roof had collapsed in the rear. He walked up to the front door, which was swinging open in the wind. He knocked and called, “Oki.”

  A young woman in tight jeans and a T-shirt that showed her soft belly came to the door. “What do you want?” She looked to be in her late teens. She eyed Cole with suspicion.

  “Are you Mary?”

  “Yeah, what do you want?”

  “I’ve come to talk with you and your mother about your brother.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I know that, Ms. Crowfoot. My name is Cole. Is your mother here?”

  “Yeah. Hold on a minute.” She yelled something into the dark home. It was on the western edge of Browning, and Cole could see into the rear yard, which was strewn with garbage and kids’ toys and a rusting swing set that looked like it could send a toddler to the hospital with a serious case of tetanus. Cole could also see the Rocky Mountain Front against the evening sky. The sunset was gaudy with orange and red clouds. It was beautiful yet made Cole feel weary at the same time.

  “Yeah?” A voice brought Cole back from his reverie.

  A diminutive older woman was at the door. While Charlie’s sister was in her teens, this woman looked to be at least sixty. Cole immediately assumed that this was Mary’s grandmother, and that both parents were out of the picture.

  “Mrs. Crowfoot, I’m Cole Blackwater.”

  “You an Indian?”

  “No.”

  “You got an Indian name.”

  “I’m Irish.”
>
  “What happened to your face?”

  “I got in an accident. Mrs. Crowfoot, can I ask you a few questions about Charlie?”

  “Why you want to come and talk about Charlie?”

  “Because he went to jail for something he didn’t do.”

  The old woman regarded him coolly. After a long, uncomfortable minute for Cole, the old woman’s resolve seemed to dissipate. “Come in.”

  Cole stepped into the trailer, and Mrs. Crowfoot pointed to a sagging lime-green couch. Cole could see that the back half of the trailer had been partitioned off with a piece of plywood and a sheet of plastic that was duct-taped to the water-stained walls.

  “Mrs. Crowfoot, I’m very sorry about your son.” The woman started to cry quietly. “Someone told the police that Charlie sold me a gun. He didn’t. But he went to jail. I understand that you and your daughter went to visit him. I don’t want to take more of your time than I should, but I have a few questions.”

  Cole sat silently while Mrs. Crowfoot cried. Mary came in and put her hand on the woman’s forearm. “Charlie was my grandson. Both his parents are dead. I been raising him. But it’s a lotta work for an old woman, and raising kids today isn’t like it used to be.”

  “I have an eleven-year-old daughter,” said Cole. “I understand.”

  “Charlie got into some trouble, I know. But he wasn’t selling guns.”

  “I know that too. The FBI had information that Charlie had sold a gun, but people had been paid to say that. It turns out that another man was here in Browning to trick Charlie and the police. His name was Blake Foreman. I’ve been told that a man matching his description was with Charlie. Did Charlie talk with you about him?”

  “We never talked about this.” Mrs. Crowfoot was twisting her hands. “Charlie was a good boy. He got in a little trouble, but so do all the kids. He never hurt no one.”

  “When you went to see him in Great Falls, did he say anything to you about what happened?”

  “He told me that he sold a man a gun and that he was going to have to go to jail.”

  “But—”