The Glacier Gallows

by Stephen Legault

  “I guess so. But they left their baggie behind. That was their mistake.” Cole shook his head.

  “Our lab didn’t lift any fingerprints from the bag, but we confirmed traces of GSR,” said Reimer. “And the boot print that Walter took a picture of will likely be a match to Derek’s boot. We’ll have to check that out.”

  “I think what happened next is open to some debate,” Cole continued. “Either Derek or Blake must have found an opportunity to steal that shirt from my tent.”

  “How did they know it wouldn’t be missed?” asked McCallum.

  “I told them. I was yammering on one night about how I always bring more clothing than I need. I’ve had that polypro shirt for twenty years and have almost never worn it. They must have picked up on that conversation on the first night of our trip and made their plans accordingly. If it hadn’t been that, they would have figured out something else.”

  “We can run tests on the shirt to match DNA to Blake or Derek,” McCallum said.

  “I think Derek got Brian up in the middle of the night. They must have had some conversation the night before, so Brian likely wasn’t suspicious. Derek walks him over to the edge of the plateau and then Blake comes up behind him, wearing my shirt, and pops him. Either that or Derek does it himself. We’ll never know for sure. Then they throw Brian over the cliff. Blake just has to wait for me to wander off and then he returns the shirt.”

  “Why kill Blake Foreman?” asked Reimer.

  “I guess to eliminate the risk co-conspirators would pose.”

  McCallum said, “There is still no evidence that he didn’t just die in a fall.”

  Cole told them his theory about the contents of Blake’s backpack. “If he had fallen and cracked the back of his head, something in that pack would have been busted.”

  “This is all pretty thin.” Reimer was still turned in the front seat.

  “We’ve looked into Mr. Foreman’s past pretty extensively,” continued McCallum. “We’ve cross-referenced dental records, and it turns out that his name wasn’t Blake Foreman at all. His name was Chas Carson, and he served in Iraq and Afghanistan. He and Derek McGrath were in Iraq at the same time, stationed at the same base. It’s possible that they met there. It’s also just as likely that Derek simply used his network to find Foreman and recruit him for the job.”

  “Even if Derek didn’t pull the trigger on Chip or Brian, he’s guilty of conspiracy, right?” asked Cole.

  “Yes. But you can’t charge a dead man,” said McCallum. “However, it does wrap up the case. We’ll have to look into Derek’s banking records, but I don’t think we’ll find anything.”

  “And what about Charlie Crowfoot?” asked Reimer.

  “He killed himself,” McCallum stated.

  “Yes, but the note. Was he coerced?” asked Cole.

  “We’ll have our people look at it. They can match handwriting. That might cause us to relook at the case.”

  “It might bring some comfort to Charlie’s family to know that he didn’t commit suicide.”

  “Cold comfort,” added Reimer.

  “And there is the small matter of what happened outside the court in Calgary.” Cole shook his head. “It feels as though this was a lot of work for one guy who runs a guiding business.”

  “You said it yourself,” said Reimer. “This wasn’t just a guy who runs a guiding business. He was a mercenary. Who knows what kind of shit he got into overseas? He brought that habit back home with him.”

  Cole looked out at the Two Medicine Grill. “You know, he was practically begging me to believe him there in the back room, before he got shot.”

  “He committed suicide,” said McCallum.

  “What?” Cole looked incredulous.

  “He walked out of a hostage situation with a weapon drawn. There were two agents and two members of the tribal police back there, all with cover. He was a soldier. He knew the odds. He fired into the grill of the pickup. He knew we had to drop him. He killed himself.”

  “He wanted me to believe him so badly. He said it was for his family, and mine.”

  FIFTY-THREE

  PORCUPINE HILLS, ALBERTA. OCTOBER 8.

  THE FIRST SOUND COLE HEARD when he woke up was his daughter’s laughter. It was the most beautiful sound in the world. He lay in bed, the window open a few inches, allowing the scent of autumn leaves to perfume the room. Nancy had her head on his right shoulder. His left still sported an angry-looking scar; the doctors said it might take all winter to rehabilitate the shoulder. He looked at Nancy, her raven-black hair cascading across his chest. He pushed it away so he could see her face. “You look beautiful,” he said.

  She opened her eyes and smiled. “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is that Sarah outside?”

  “Yeah, she’s playing with the dogs.” Cole kissed Nancy, and she rolled over and carefully climbed on top of him.

  “PERRY IS COMING down from Calgary for dinner?” asked Walter. He stood in the kitchen and Cole and Nancy sat on the couch next to the stove.

  “Yeah, he and his girlfriend and her daughter. They should be down late this afternoon. I think we’ve got everything ready. This is the first Thanksgiving I’ve been here in almost twenty years,” said Cole.

  “I know.” Walter drank his coffee.

  “Holy shit,” exclaimed Nancy, and then she put a hand over her mouth and looked around for Sarah or Dorothy. She had her laptop open.

  “What happened?” asked Cole.

  “Rick Turcotte just resigned.”

  “He fell on his sword?”

  “It looks like it.” Nancy was scrolling through the Globe and Mail website.

  “What does it say?”

  “It says that the parliamentary ethics commissioner was doing an investigation into what the Opposition is calling Nuke-Gate—”

  “Why does everything have to have gate after it?” asked Walter.

  Nancy answered, “The FOIPP info, along with the file that Brian built, was going to rain hellfire on the government. Looks like Rick has taken one for the team.”

  Cole’s face was set in a dark frown. “I still feel so uneasy about the whole thing with Brian.”

  “It’s case closed,” said Nancy. “You heard Agent McCallum. The FBI has found the email McGrath sent to Brian with the death threats. They have traced it back to that Internet place in Browning where he logged on to send the notes. They tore apart his digital files and found an email account linked to his IP address. The only reason they found it in the first place is because he had sent himself an email from that account pretending to be Chip saying he wouldn’t be able to work the guided hike in Glacier. That created the opportunity for Derek to bring his friend and fellow mercenary Blake Foreman into the picture. The FBI has also lifted a latent fingerprint off the note that he passed to Charlie Crowfoot. They even found ballistic evidence that linked the gun that killed Brian to the one that killed Chip.”

  “I don’t know …”

  “Let it go, Cole. It’s Thanksgiving. Be thankful.” Walter was washing his coffee cup.

  “I am. Very,” said Cole, putting a hand on Nancy’s knee.

  “Hell, I’ve even got my old job back,” said Walter. “Mind you, I got one hell of a talking-to before they let me back in the door.”

  Sarah charged into the house, two dogs close on her heels.

  “Shoes!” Nancy and Cole said at the same time. The girl stopped and used her toes to pull off her shoes. She ran and jumped into Cole’s lap.

  “God, you’re getting too big for this.”

  “I’ll never be too big,” said Sarah.

  “You’re right.”

  “When are we going riding?”

  “Walt?”

  “Let’s do it. I’ll go and get started with the horses.”

  “I’ll help!” Sarah sprang off Cole. He winced but then smiled.

  “Come on, Daddy!”

  “Yeah, come on, Daddy,” echoed
Nancy.

  THEY RODE FOR three hours, up into the shimmering aspens, their leaves the color of burnt umber and yellow warblers. Sarah rode out front with Walter, with Nancy behind them and Cole riding easily in the rear. They had a picnic lunch on top of the ridge above the house. From the summit they could see the folded earth of the Whaleback and, beyond, the already snowcapped slopes of Thunder Mountain.

  Midafternoon, they rode back toward the ranch, riding two abreast on the old dirt road, and Cole felt almost certain that he would find once more the fragile peace that had temporarily eluded him during the whole Brian Marriott affair.

  “WE ARE HAVING pumpkin pie, aren’t we?” asked Sarah.

  Dorothy Blackwater looked at Cole.

  “We didn’t grow any pumpkins this year, pumpkin,” he said.

  “But it’s Thanksgiving! We always have pumpkin pie.”

  “I’ll run into Claresholm and see what I can find.”

  “It’s okay, Daddy. It’s a long drive.”

  “Nothing is too long for you, darling.”

  COLE LEFT NANCY, Walter, and Sarah to set the table and finish the turkey. He took Walter’s truck and drove the thirty minutes into Claresholm. Shop Easy Foods was still open. He dashed into the bakery section and found the last sad-looking pumpkin pie. He bought an extra-large container of whipping cream to compensate for the dejected-looking dessert. He paid at the till and jumped back into the truck.

  “Should fill this baby up before I drive back,” Cole said aloud. He found a station and pumped the gas, and when he was done he went around to the driver’s side to get back in. He caught a glimpse of an SUV with dark windows pulling up at the stop sign at the turnoff for Highway 520. The front windows were rolled down. Cole squinted. “No fucking way,” he said, getting into Walter’s truck. He pulled away from the pump. Cole caught a glimpse of the SUV’s plate. It was a rental vehicle. One of the men who had beaten him in the bar and hotel in Casper, Wyoming, was driving, and another man was in the passenger seat. They were in Claresholm, Alberta, and were heading toward the Blackwater Ranch.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  PORCUPINE HILLS, ALBERTA. OCTOBER 8.

  “I CAN’T REACH ANYONE THERE.” Cole had his cell phone on speaker mode, and it sat on his lap while he drove, staying a mile back from the SUV. He felt a panic in his chest that made him feel as though he were having a heart attack.

  “You’re certain about this, Cole?” asked Inspector Reimer.

  “Yeah, I recognized one of them from Casper.”

  “We’re going to ignore for the time being the fact that you left this out of your statement. Where are you now?”

  “I’m ten minutes outside of Claresholm. I’m following the truck.” Cole looked at his speedometer. He was speeding on the gravel road, and he was just keeping sight of the SUV.

  “Have they seen you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Alright, here’s what I want you to do. Follow them and keep this line open. Do not engage these men. Is that clear?”

  “Yeah,” said Cole. “But they’re going to get to the ranch before you can get cops on the scene.”

  “Hold on,” Reimer said. She was back in a minute. “Alright. I’ve got two units on their way from Claresholm. They will only be five minutes behind you when you reach the ranch.”

  “A lot of bad things can happen in five minutes, Inspector.”

  “Cole, we’re going to get there as fast as we can. I’m mobilizing our tactical team from Calgary. They will be at your family’s place in forty minutes. They are on their way.”

  Cole felt his foot pressing down harder on the accelerator. “I’m going to hang up and call Walter again. See if I can get him.”

  “Stay on with me, Cole. We have a 911 operator working to contact your family. I need you to keep your eyes on that truck.”

  “Maybe I should overtake them.” The F-150 accelerated. He felt the heavy vehicle swaying on the gravel road.

  “Do not engage these men, Cole. If they are who you say they are, no good will come from that.”

  Fuck it, thought Cole. He wasn’t going to let that truck reach the ranch. He pressed his foot to the floor, and the Ford leapt forward, fishtailing a little on the gravel, but racing to close the distance.

  “TELL COLE THAT he should get another bottle of wine or two, if he can find an open liquor store,” Nancy called from the kitchen.

  “It’s Claresholm on Thanksgiving Day, but I’ll tell him.” Walter picked up the phone in the living room, started to dial, and discovered that the line was dead. He flicked the switch hook a few times and listened. Still nothing. He checked the connection between the phone and the jack. Odd, he thought.

  Walter went through the kitchen, and Nancy asked, “Did he complain?”

  “I haven’t reached him. The phone is dead. I’m going to check the box.” Walter pulled on his boots and went out to the side of the house where the phone line came in from the highway. He opened the box and examined the connections. Things seemed to be intact. He looked at the line where it connected with a telephone pole next to the driveway. All appeared normal. Walter started to walk along the long gravel road that led from Highway 520 to the Blackwater Ranch. His eye caught a reflection of light high on the hill above the ranch. He kept walking but watched the spot from the corner of his eye. The light glimmered again. Walter knew there was nothing metallic on that hill that could cause such a reflection. He reached a third telephone pole, pretended to inspect it where the line attached, but he was really watching for movement high on the eastern hill. The reflection glinted once more. Walter walked back to the house. He didn’t take his boots off when he came in the door.

  “Shoes!” called Sarah from where she was helping Nancy in the kitchen.

  Walter went to his bedroom and found his binoculars on the shelf. Without opening the curtains more than a few inches, he studied the eastern hillside where he had seen the sunlight reflecting off something. He saw movement. Nothing distinctive, but there was something there, and it was man-made.

  He returned the binoculars to the shelf and went downstairs. “I don’t want to sound alarmist,” Walter said calmly, “but I think that you ladies might want to head to the basement.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Nancy, looking out the sink window. The sky was dark blue at the end of the afternoon. “Is there a storm coming?”

  “I don’t know. I think I saw someone up on the hill. The phones are dead. I need you to take Sarah and Dorothy to the basement, please.”

  Nancy crossed her arms. “Do you really think I’m going to cower in the basement?”

  Walter smiled thinly and shook his head. “Cole sure was right about you.”

  COLE CAME UP on the SUV very fast. At the last minute, the truck’s brake lights blinked and the vehicle veered to the left, so that Cole only clipped its back bumper. For a moment it fishtailed, its rear bumper grinding against the side of the F-150. The big SUV straightened out and accelerated away at a reckless speed. Cole pressed his foot to the floor and rammed its bumper.

  “What’s happening, Cole?” said Reimer over the phone.

  “Can’t talk now!”

  “Cole!”

  Cole grabbed his phone and disconnected it. The SUV hit its brakes again, and Cole collided with the back of it. This time it held its ground, and Cole steered to the right to avoid ending up in the ditch on his left. In a second the SUV was behind him, and Cole saw the man on the passenger side rolling down his window and aiming a handgun at him.

  ONCE DOROTHY AND Sarah were in the basement, Walter went back to his bedroom and opened his closet door. His Park Service uniform hung in the closet. On the floor was a keypad-operated safe. He entered the code, opened the door, and took out his HK P2000 and two magazines. He slipped one magazine into the pistol and chambered a round and made sure the safety was set. He then strapped on his Park Service belt and holstered the pistol, slipping the second magazine into the utility belt.<
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  Walter retrieved his shotgun from the closet, unlocked the trigger guard, and loaded six shells into the breech. He went and stood in the kitchen, the shotgun on the counter, and looked out the sink window. Nancy came up beside him, and the two of them watched the golden hillside.

  COLE SURE AS hell wasn’t going to lead these two thugs back to the Blackwater Ranch, so when the turn appeared, he kept going straight on Highway 520. His plan was to lead them into the forest reserve, high above the ranch. And then what? Drive all the way to Longview? If he had to, he would. He looked in his mirror and saw the SUV brake hard. In a plume of dust, it made the turn.

  “Fuck,” he shouted and hit the brakes hard, almost losing control in the soft gravel. He did a quick three-point turn and drove hard back toward the ranch. The vehicle had disappeared on the other side of a rise in the rolling country, but Cole could see the telltale rooster tail of dust. Cole crested the rise and slammed on the brake. There was carnage in the road. The SUV had rear-ended a much smaller car, which was now on its side, its end in pieces. Next to the smaller car, the SUV was upside down, its tires spinning, glass and metal strewn across the gravel.

  The car was Perry Gilbert’s.

  WALTER AND NANCY heard the accident. He looked over his shoulder at the door to the basement.

  “Do you think Cole is in trouble?” asked Nancy, her face gray.

  “If he is, he’s on his own. He can handle it. We’re not leaving the ranch.”

  COLE HIT THE brake hard. The truck started to tip. He quickly took his foot off the pedal and the Ford leveled out but was still careening toward the wreckage in the road. Without touching the brake again, Cole steered the truck toward the ditch. He hit it hard, the airbag exploding in his face, a spray of gravel, mud, and turf cascading over the windshield as he plowed through the gully. He heard gravel hit the roof. He felt the front and then the rear tires clang over something metal, and then he was driving around the wreck next to the stock fence that bordered the road. He punched the airbag down and steered back toward the gravel, stopping before he hit the ditch again. Once was enough. He looked toward the accident scene and couldn’t see anybody in the car.