The Glacier Gallows (11 page)

Cole had written the number down but was silent.

“Cole? You okay?”

“I don't know.”

TWO DAYS PASSED.
Cole, Nancy, and Walter rode up into the Porcupine Hills and gazed out over the sweep of fractured country to the west, where the Whaleback Ridge rose and fell like a beached cetacean. Beyond its beveled spine, the Livingstone Range dragged its jagged edge along the bottom of drifting clouds. On Monday, Walter went back to work. In the summer, he rented a room in Waterton to avoid the long drive back and forth each night. On Tuesday, Cole and Nancy had supper with his mother, and he was just beginning to think that he had dodged the bullet when the telephone rang.

Cole looked at his mother and at Nancy and got up from the table to answer it by the sideboard.

“Blackwater,” he said.

“Mr. Blackwater, this is Inspector Reimer from the
RCMP
.”

“What can I do for you, Inspector?” Cole turned to catch Nancy's troubled gaze.

“Cole, we'd like you to come into Claresholm
RCMP
in the morning, please.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“You aren't right now.”

“Is it a likely outcome of our conversation in the morning?”

“We need to follow up on some of the information you provided during our last interview.”

Cole turned away from the table and dropped his voice. “Cut the bullshit, Inspector.”

“Be here at eleven.”

“My lawyer and I will see you then.”

OTTAWA, ONTARIO. MARCH 9.

“THE ONLY REASON WE'RE HERE,
Brian, is because you've helped us in the past,” said the Minister of Natural Resources. “My parliamentary secretary seems to think you've still got something to offer, but I think you've gone round the bend, to be frank.” David Canning sat behind his desk in his Centre Block office. Parliamentary Secretary Rick Turcotte was in a leather club chair next to Brian.

“I appreciate you seeing me, Minister.”

“I haven't forgotten the stunt you pulled at the reception. The YouTube video. Those were private remarks.”

“As I told you then, Minister, that's not my style.”

The minister waved a dismissive hand and looked at his watch. “I have caucus in ten minutes, Brian. It takes me three minutes to walk there. Start talking.”

“I think the
AEG
has made a reasonable proposal around tar sands. It gives your government the opportunity to use the tar sands to transition to a new energy future and still reap the rewards of long-term development.”

“I have to stop you there, Brian.” The minister held up his hand. “Your proposal had a significant flaw that makes it a nonstarter with this government. You want to put a cap on development that is far below what is needed to allow for a reasonable return on investment by the major players.”

“Two million barrels a day is two hundred million dollars' worth of oil. Every day. That's more than seven trillion a year, Minister. How much more return on investment is needed? If you can't make a reasonable
ROI
with seven trillion dollars gross a year, times must be pretty tough.”

“I'm not going to debate this with you,” said Canning. “I'm just telling you that two million barrels is a nonstarter. It's not enough to feed the market.”

“You mean it's not enough to feed China.”

“
This
country has energy. China
needs
energy. This is simple economics. Have you been so hoodwinked by the environmentalists that you've forgotten the basic rules of the game?”

Brian drew a deep breath. “Minister, with all due respect, this has nothing to do with the environmentalists. This is about what's in our national interest.”

“Don't tell me what's in our national interest. In”—the minister looked at his watch—“four minutes, I have to sit at the table with the Minister of Foreign Affairs and the Minister of Defence and discuss the current state of global geopolitical events. Don't lecture me on what's in
our
national interest!”

“If that's the case, Minister, push back. Show some backbone. Don't let China dictate our domestic energy policy.”

“This is what I mean,” the minister said, standing. He looked at Turcotte. “This is what I mean. You can't have a conversation with
these
people. It's always about someone else taking control of our energy future. It's garbage.” He turned back to Brian. “I have caucus, Mr. Marriott.”

“Minister . . .” Brian stood up. “Did you meet with Senator Lester Thompson from High Country Energy two months ago?” Canning looked at Turcotte, then back at Brian. “Did you meet with the former chair of the Senate Committee on Natural Resources, who is now chairman of
HCE
, right before he visited China?”

The minister smiled. “I have caucus.” He stepped past Brian and went to the door. “Mr. Turcotte, the prime minister doesn't like his Cabinet to be late when they face the backbenches.”

Rick Turcotte stood and with a gesture ushered Brian Marriott out of the office. Brian was left standing in the hall as the two men walked away.

“YOU KNOW THAT
someone from the Chinese Embassy was at the minister's announcement last week,” said Jessica Winters over the phone.

“How deeply does the Chinese government have its hooks into the tar sands?”

Winters sighed. “In one eighteen-month period, Chinese national companies invested fifteen billion in existing projects. That's just the tip of the iceberg. A Chinese petrochemical company is poised to make investments that could double or triple that. They are buying significant interests in half a dozen Canadian companies.”

“I would say an investment of that magnitude buys you a seat at the decision-making table, don't you think?”

“It's not out of the question. It's certainly an influence on Canada's export direction away from the United States and toward Asia. There are two barriers, however: first, the pipeline that is supposed to ship the oil to China is held up in hearings, and second, we're burning tons of natural gas to refine the bitumen that comes out of the ground.”

“That's why this whole push to reclassify nuclear as an alternative energy worries me,” said Brian. “The government has made a commitment—reluctantly—to power tar-sands development in part with alternatives. Now it looks like nuclear will be that power source.”

“It's not an alternative to anything,” agreed Winters. “What's your next move?”

“I need to connect the dots.”

PORCUPINE HILLS, ALBERTA. JULY 15.

WALTER DROVE HOME AND TOOK
the day off work. He, Cole, and Nancy ate breakfast at the long kitchen table. Cole drank coffee and poked at his eggs and potatoes. His mother brought him more food. “Mom, I'm not really very hungry,” he protested.

“You need to eat, Cole.”

He took a bite of eggs and put his fork down. Nancy put her hand on his. “Are you catching flack at work?” Cole asked Walter. “You don't have to do this.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I don't want you to get fired.”

“I've got fifteen years with the Park Service. You're my brother. I haven't always been there for you. I'll be there for you today.”

Cole put his coffee down, squeezed Nancy's hand, and stood up. “Let's go. I'd rather be early than late.” Cole hugged his mother at the door. With the back of his knuckles, he gently brushed away her tears before she silently turned and went back into the house.

They took Walter's Ford and drove the winding road out of the dell of the Blackwater Ranch. The morning was bright; in July, the meadows and hay fields still held a freshness that perfumed the air. A few more weeks and they would fade from green to brown. Cole watched clutches of butterflies dance in the early-morning warmth.

“Walter,” said Nancy, “do you know anything that might help?”

Cole watched Walter's temple pulse and knew his brother was working through something in his head. “Brian was shot from behind,” said Walter. “I did a forensics course while at the National Law Enforcement Training Centre. He had a massive exit wound in his forehead. It could have been mistaken for trauma from the fall, but the wound opened out, not in. I've been around a lot of bodies that have fallen from cliffs and mountains. When a person falls, they try to land on their feet. Normally in these situations you get a lot of damage to the legs, pelvis, and torso but often very little to the head. But if a person is already dead when he goes over the cliff, then gravity takes over and the body ends up landing horizontally. In those cases the body likely rolls some too. Brian ended up on his back. He was shot in the back of the head; the exit wound was in his forehead. The landing could have caused the front of his head to just explode like that; I've seen it before in climbing accidents. But the entrance wound was unmistakable: a small hole surrounded by burn marks. Damaged as he was, that was unmistakable.”

“He was executed.” Cole looked at Walter.

“I don't know. All I know is what was found at the scene. I haven't been on the inside of the investigation since the morning the body was recovered.”

“They shut you out.” Cole tapped his hand on the dashboard.

“Yes. It's pretty standard procedure. You can't have an officer involved in an investigation that involves his kin.”

“But you were first on the scene.”

“And if this case ever goes to trial, I suspect I'll be asked to testify about what I saw.”

“I think I'm going to get arrested.” Cole's hand was balled into a fist on the dashboard.

“We don't know that,” said Nancy.

“I do.”

“Did you do anything wrong?” Nancy asked carefully.

“Sure. Lots of things. I've used my fists to solve my problems for the last twenty-five years of my life. I've made a mess of the only good things that have come into my life—you,” he said, looking at Nancy, “and Sarah. And I took a job working with a guy I didn't really trust—at least, not at first. Sure, I've done lots of things wrong.”

“But—” Nancy began.

“I didn't kill him. I certainly wouldn't have used a gun. The last time I fired a gun I was sixteen. I wouldn't even know how to get a gun.”

They drove into Claresholm and parked in front of Roy's Place, a family-style restaurant. Walter extracted himself and stretched while Cole and Nancy sat in the truck. “What can I do?” asked Nancy.

“You're here. That's enough.”

“Of course I'm here.”

“You didn't have to be. I know it's probably a pain in the ass.”

“When I was in jail last year, you came to get me.”

“You were in the cop shop for two hours. I only came because it plays into one of my fantasies.” She punched him in the arm. “Seriously, Nancy. Thank you.”

“Whatever happens, I got your back, Blackwater.”

Perry Gilbert was in the restaurant when they went inside. He was drinking coffee, and he stood when Cole entered. He extended his hand and Cole shook it. “It's good to see you again, Cole, though I wish the circumstances were different.”

After the others had ordered coffee, Perry took out a legal pad. “What are we up against?” Cole told him the whole story again. It took half an hour, and Perry didn't interrupt once. He filled two dozen pages with notes, and when Cole was finished he went through them to find the places where he'd made a question mark and asked for clarification.

“What do you make of it?” asked Cole.

“I'd say you're in a tight spot. I'll wait to see what they present this morning, but I'd say they are prepared to recommend a charge be laid by the district attorney for Montana. To do so, however, they need to file for extradition first. They can establish motive from your past with Mr. Marriott. They can establish opportunity by placing you at the scene of the crime. We'll see if they have a medical examiner's report this morning to establish time of death, but I don't think that will be hard for them to prove. Anybody could have gotten up sometime before dawn to lure Mr. Marriott out of his tent. The only thing missing is means. The fact that he was shot will be our ace: you've never owned a gun and didn't have access to one. We'll see if they have recovered a weapon.”

“I had nothing to do with Brian Marriott's death,” repeated Cole.

“That won't matter right now.”

THE FOUR OF
them walked into the
RCMP
detachment at 11:00
AM
sharp. Cole didn't notice anything unusual outside the squat brick building. They were greeted by a congenial constable at the reporting desk.

“My name is Perry Gilbert, and this is Cole Blackwater.”

“I'll let Inspector Reimer know you're here.” The constable picked up the phone.

A moment later, Reimer appeared at the door behind the reporting desk. “Mr. Blackwater, thank you for coming.”

“Always looking for an excuse to have a town day,” he said. Introductions were made. Nancy held Inspector Reimer's eyes for a moment and then looked away. Nancy had met with Inspector Reimer the year before to discuss the death of Henry Blackwater—Cole's father—and Nancy's concerns about Cole's deteriorating mental health. Reimer had helped Nancy sort through a plethora of police reports about Henry's violent behavior. Nancy had never told Cole that the two had met.

“We'll ask that your brother and Ms. Webber wait here,” said Reimer. Cole looked at Nancy and Walter. He felt his face flush and his stomach turn. Walter shook his hand, and Cole pulled him into an awkward embrace. Nancy kissed him on the cheek.

The interview room was clean and bright and had a metal table surrounded by four chairs. Cole and Perry sat down. Perry placed his file on the table. A moment later Inspector Reimer entered, followed closely by
FBI
Special Agent Steven McCallum. Cole felt a lump forming in his throat.