Heaven's Keep (34 page)

With his free hand, Gully slapped his partner’s shoulder hard. “Goddamn it, I told you to cap her.”

“I did. I just couldn’t shoot her in the face. I told you, she looked too much like Rita. So I put one in her heart. Hell, if that didn’t kill her, I figured she’d suffocate.”

“Obviously she didn’t. Fuck!”

“What do we do?” Quinn asked.

“Get rid of these two and cut our losses,” Mike said. “We’ll put ’em inside with the others and bury the plane again. Then see if we can figure how the woman did the Houdini thing.”

The two thugs were less than a dozen feet away. If they were any good with their weapons, Cork didn’t stand a chance of reaching the rifle in the pit before they nailed him. But he figured at this point, he had nothing to lose. He was just about to make his move when two shots rang out from the top of the canyon wall and two rounds burrowed into the dirt near the killers’ feet. The men spun and crouched, swinging their weapons toward the line where the top of the canyon wall met the sky. Cork grabbed Parmer, and they both dove for the pit. They weren’t alone. Dewey Quinn leaped in after them.

Cork took Quinn. He grabbed the man and heaved him against the pit wall. Quinn lashed out with a fast fist that caught Cork just below his left eye. Cork took the blow, then lunged forward, burying his shoulder in Quinn’s gut, and he wrapped his arms around the deputy. Quinn tried to dig his knee into Cork’s stomach and hammered at the back of his head, but Cork held on. He lifted Quinn off his feet and threw him to the ground. Quinn tried to come up. The toe of Cork’s boot buried itself in the soft tissue below Quinn’s jaw, and the man’s head snapped back. It hit the fuselage with a hollow thud. Quinn lay on the ground, facedown. He moaned and struggled to rise, but Cork sat on his back, pinning him in the dirt.

He’d been vaguely aware of gunfire. And now he saw that Parmer had the rifle, had positioned himself on the steps, and was pulling off rounds over the edge of the pit. At the moment, there wasn’t any return
fire. Parmer held off squeezing the trigger. He glanced down at Cork.

“They both got away,” he said. “Do we go after them?”

“What about the shooter on the wall?” Cork asked.

“Nothing since those first two rounds. How’s Benedict Arnold there?”

“Just the way I want him. Alive and rattled.” Cork got up and grabbed one of the shovels. He rolled Quinn over and put the digging edge of the blade to the man’s throat. “I’m very much inclined to separate your head from the rest of you, Dewey. Then I’ll just throw the two pieces in that plane and bury it again. Nobody’ll ever know.”

Quinn looked up at him. It wasn’t fear in his eyes so much as resignation.

“Tell me what you know,” Cork said.

Quinn began to talk.

T
hey drove back the way they’d come. When they reached the junction with the road they’d traveled the day before, they took it southwest, following the line of the mountains toward Nightwind’s ranch.

With the shovel blade at his throat, Dewey Quinn had told them everything. There’d been no report of mysterious activity on the rez involving heavy equipment. He’d concocted the story to draw them out to the canyon where they were to be dealt with. As far as he knew, Kosmo and No Voice weren’t involved, but Nightwind was, and Ellyn Grant. He didn’t know anyone higher up the food chain than Gully and Mike. Their last names? He didn’t know that either. They never dealt in last names. He blamed his wife for his involvement.

“You got any idea how tough it is keeping a spoiled woman happy? Christ, I was in debt up to my eyeballs.”

“And then Gully and Mike came along and offered you a way out.”

“Nightwind sent them. That guy’s like the devil. He knows how to get to you.”

“What did they want you for?” Parmer asked.

It was Cork who answered. “They needed a man on the inside of the department, a guy who could keep them informed and if necessary remove the complications of the law. Who better for that than the officer responsible for the investigation of major crimes in Owl Creek County? When Felicia Gray’s car took that plunge, I’m sure Dewey here was quick on the official determination of cause. A tragic accident. And all it took to buy his soul was money. Hell, Dewey, I thought you had your eyes on a job with the FBI.”

“There’s no cop job in the world pays like they were paying me.” Despite his disgrace, he’d eyed Hugh Parmer and managed a look of disdain. “Not all of us have the luxury of being rich.”

Quinn sat between them now. They’d tied his hands with twine from his toolbox, and they’d bound his ankles as well.

Cork used Parmer’s cell phone to call Jim Kosmo and tell him about the plane buried in the canyon under Eagle Cloud. When the sheriff asked where he and Parmer were at that moment, Cork wouldn’t say. Which didn’t sit at all well with Kosmo. Big surprise.

The compound lay in the blue shadow of the foothills. Cork parked Quinn’s truck, took the binoculars from the knapsack, and got out. Parmer joined him, and for several minutes they studied their objective.

The place seemed deserted. Cork spotted the pickup that the Arapaho kid had driven the day before, parked in front of the barn. Although he couldn’t see anyone moving about, the barn door was clearly open.

“Well?” Parmer said.

“There may be someone in the barn.”

“How do we handle this?”

“Approach on foot, do our best to surprise him.”

“What about Quinn?”

“We leave him with the truck.”

“What if he tries to get away?”

Cork hauled Quinn out of the cab. He hopped the deputy to the front of the truck and sat him on the bumper. “Toss me that roll of twine,” he said to Parmer. He bound Quinn to the grille. When he stepped back, he said, “Dewey, we come back and I find you gone, I’ll hunt you down and shoot you like a rabbit, don’t think I won’t.”

Cork grabbed Quinn’s Winchester from the rack in the cab. Parmer, who was holding his Ruger, gave a long look at the rifle, then another long look at Cork. But he said nothing.

They made their way down the slope, which was covered with short, coarse grass and punctuated by large rocks that protruded from the earth like the bows of sinking ships. Moving carefully rock to rock, they took several minutes to reach the barn. From inside came
the sound of someone whistling. A Roy Orbison tune. “Running Scared.” Cork peered around the edge of the open door. The older Arapaho who’d greeted them on their first visit to the ranch was standing at a worktable, a screwdriver in his hand, laboring over a piece of sheet metal. Cork saw no one else. He signaled to Parmer, and the two men slipped inside. They approached the Arapaho, who suddenly stopped his work and spun. When he saw them, he reached toward a rifle that lay on the bench next to the worktable.

“Hold it right there,” Cork said.

The Arapaho froze, a foot of empty air between his hand and the weapon he’d gone for.

“Move away from the firearm,” Cork ordered.

The Arapaho sidled a yard to his right.

“Where’s Nightwind?”

The Arapaho didn’t answer.

“You always work with a rifle close at hand?”

“In this country,” the man replied, “you never know what kind of animal might be sneaking around. It’s my job to protect this property and the livestock on it.”

“Where’s Nightwind?” Cork asked again.

“He’s not here.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I don’t know where he is.”

“Suppose I go up to the house and have a look-see?”

The Arapaho gave no sign that he cared one way or the other.

“Sit on the ground,” Cork told him.

The man sat.

“Watch him, Hugh. I’m going to see if I can rustle up a little Nightwind.”

“Careful, partner.”

Cork stood at the barn door and studied the house a long moment. He slipped out and dashed to the outbuilding where the ATVs and heavy equipment were kept. From there, he ran to the garage and took a quick look inside. One of the spaces was empty. Which didn’t necessarily mean anything. He sprinted to the house and approached the front door. Locked. He eased along the side of the house and checked
the windows as he went. The curtains were open. There appeared to be no one inside. He came to a side door, which was also locked. He used the butt of Quinn’s rifle to shatter one of the panes in the mullioned window, and he reached inside to free the lock. With his hip he nudged the door open and popped inside. Room by room he crept through the house, satisfying himself that it was empty. The place was simply furnished, decorated with artwork like the kind on display at the gallery in the Reservation Business Center. A framed photograph on the mantel in the living room caught his eye. It showed two young people holding hands, with foothills at their backs, and with Heaven’s Keep looming above the whole scene like a guardian angel. The young woman was Ellyn Grant. The young man was Lame Nightwind. It must have been taken twenty years before and in a happier time. They were holding hands and smiling.

Cork returned to the barn.

“He’s not there.” He stood at the open door and eyed the thread of woodsmoke rising in the foothills half a mile away. “There’s somewhere else he might be, though. Let’s pay a visit to your place.”

“No,” the Arapaho said.

“Yes,” Cork said. “And we’re going to take your pickup. You drive.”

The Arapaho stood his ground and would not move.

“All right,” Cork said. “We’ll tie you up, leave you down here, and we’ll still take your truck.”

“All right,” the Arapaho said. “I’ll drive you there.”

They left the barn, and at the pickup Cork said, “Hugh, give me your gun. I’ll ride up front with our host. You take the rifle and hunker down in back so nobody can see you.” To the Arapaho, he said, “Any shooting starts, you take the first bullet.”

“You’d really shoot me?”

“You want to find out?”

“Nightwind isn’t at my cabin.”

“I’d like to see that for myself.”

“Only my wife is there. You’ll frighten her. She won’t give you any trouble, I promise. None of us will.”

“Fine. Then this should be easy all the way around. Let’s go.”

The Arapaho slid behind the wheel, and Cork took the seat next to him. He held Parmer’s Ruger in his lap with the muzzle toward the man driving. Parmer lay down in back with the rifle beside him. They took off and followed a dirt road that wound through foothills dotted with lodgepole pines. As they approached the cabin, Cork saw that it was built among a gathering of cottonwoods. Nestled into the fold of the hills, with smoke rising from the chimney, it looked like a good, peaceful place to live. Cork hoped he wouldn’t find Nightwind there. He hated the thought of bringing violence to the Arapaho’s home. But if it would help him find Jo, he’d raise hell in heaven itself.

The Arapaho braked to a stop fifty yards from the cabin. A sheep-dog, black and white, left the porch and trotted out to meet them. The dog hesitated and must have caught the strange scent of Cork and Parmer, because it began to bark fiercely. Cork saw a curtain move in a front window.

“Go on,” he said to the Arapaho. “Pull all the way up.”

The man took his time. When they were parked near the porch, Cork said, “Slide this way. We’re getting out the same side.” He opened his door and used it to shield him from the cabin as the Arapaho maneuvered out. Parmer jumped from the pickup bed and stood beside Cork.

“Walk to the house and keep in front of us,” he told the Arapaho.

“You’re scaring my wife,” the Arapaho said.

“If Nightwind’s not here, she has nothing to fear.”

The door opened before they reached the porch, and a woman appeared. She wore her hair in a long, graying braid. She had on a tan blouse and a long green skirt, embroidered along the hem. Around her waist an apron was tied, and she wiped her hands on it as she looked the men over. She spoke to her husband in Arapaho. He replied in the same language.

“What are you saying?” Cork asked.

“She wants to know who you are. I told her.”

“Told her what?”

“Men looking for Lame.”

“Lame’s gone,” she said.

“We’d like to take a look inside, ma’am, just for our own peace of mind.”

The woman glanced at her husband, who spoke again in Arapaho. She stood aside, leaving the way clear for them to enter.

“After you,” Cork said to the Arapaho.

Inside, the air was sharp and redolent with the aroma of cooking chili peppers. Parmer stayed with the couple while Cork checked the rooms. The place was cozy and simple: a small living room and kitchen, a bathroom, and two bedrooms. One of the bedrooms was decorated with posters of aircraft of all kind. A biplane, a World War II Sabre jet, a stealth bomber. Plastic airplane models hung from strings tacked to the ceiling boards. When Cork returned to the others, he said, “Your grandson, he wants to fly?”

The woman made no reply, but her husband gave a diffident shrug.

“Where is he?”

“Out,” the Arapaho said. “Riding.”

“Where’s Nightwind?”

“I told you. We don’t know. He comes. He goes. He doesn’t have to tell me. He’s my boss, I’m not his.”

“Have you seen a woman with him? A white woman, blond?”

“No,” the man said.

His wife spoke to him in Arapaho. He hushed her harshly.

“What did she say?”

“That she’s afraid you’re going to kill us.”

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Cork said to her.

She eyed the Ruger in his hand, and he lowered it to his side, muzzle toward the floor.

“I just want to find my wife. If you know the truth and if you’re hiding Lame Nightwind, it could be bad for you. You could be charged with a crime.”

“What crime?” asked the Arapaho.

“Aiding and abetting a known criminal.”

“You know that Lame’s a criminal?”

“I do. At least five people are dead because of him.”

“We don’t know where he is, and that’s God’s truth. We don’t
know when he’ll be back. And we don’t know anything about a blond white woman.”

Cork looked at the Arapaho’s wife, who looked at the floor. “All right,” he finally said. “Let’s get out of here, Hugh.”