The Glacier Gallows (20 page)

“What about the cop? And the reporter?”

Pullman cleared his throat. “Constable Jerry McCauley was killed. The round went right through his heart. He was dead before he hit the ground. Jonathan Miller from the
Herald
is recovering in hospital. He's going to make it, though there was significant damage.”

Reimer took over again. “We've looked into the phone call you received just before you were shot. The call came from within the city, but other than that, we can't pin it down. We think it was made from another cell phone, possibly even by the shooter, to isolate you. If you got a call from a familiar number, someone like your friend Mr. Scott, you would step out of the crowd to take it. That would give the sniper a clean shot.”

“But I dropped the phone. That cost Constable McCauley his life.”

“Nobody thinks of it that way,” Pullman said.

“Right now, Mr. Blackwater,” said Reimer, “this is about all we know.”

“It's been a week since I was shot and this is all you know?” Cole said angrily. Behind his frustration, he could feel the icy finger of fear on his spine.

“We assume that this was someone related to the ongoing investigation into Brian Marriott's death, but beyond that, we're not willing to speculate.”

“You know, you really are something,” Cole said. “You guys were so quick to come down on me after Brian was killed. Now we've got five people dead, and you tell me you're not willing to speculate?”

“As you might imagine, this investigation, spanning two countries and involving three confirmed homicides and two related deaths, is a complex situation—”

“Inspector,” interrupted Cole. “I just spent the better part of a month trying to convince you I had nothing to do with this. Now I've been shot. Don't come in here and tell me that things are complex. I just don't want to hear it. I know things are complex because I've been in the center of that shit storm for the last six weeks.”

“Mr. Blackwater, we'd like to provide you with protection, if you're willing,” said Reimer.

“What, an
RCMP
escort?”

“We've had a constable by your door for the last week. This is for when you're discharged. Someone is trying to kill you.”

“Really? Someone is trying to kill me. Thanks for the news, Inspector.”

“The offer stands. If you stay in Alberta, we can have a cruiser stationed at your ranch. If you head back to Vancouver—”

“No, thank you. I've had way too much
RCMP
involvement in my life over the last six weeks.”

“I think we're done here,” said Nancy.

“Well, we just wanted to keep you up to date,” said Pullman.

“Consider us caught up.” Perry crossed his arms.

“WHAT ARE YOU
going to do?” asked Denman Scott over the telephone. Cole was sitting on his hospital bed. He wore a hospital gown over his bandaged shoulder. His left arm was out of the sling, but he still couldn't move it.

“What do you mean, what am I going to do? I'm going to pack up my things at the ranch and get on a plane to Vancouver. I haven't seen Sarah in more than six weeks. It's killing me.”

“I'll meet you at the airport,” said Denman. “I guess what I mean is, what are you going to do about Brian Marriott's death?”

“Nothing. The
RCMP
,
FBI
, Calgary police, Blackfeet police, Glacier County police, they're all over this. They have two dozen officers working this now. This shooting has been the lead story on every channel across Canada for a week. I'm going to get out of the way, get home, and get back to work. If I have any clients left, which I doubt.”

“You can come and work for me. I've been thinking about hiring a director of communications. You could write your own ticket.”

“Thanks, Denny, I appreciate that. I do. I've got to see if Nexus still wants my help on wind farming and tidal power. I've got to see if there is still an Alternative Energy Group to advocate in Ottawa on behalf of renewable energy.”

“But Cole, Brian Marriott was killed for a reason.”

“The
FBI
and the
RCMP
will figure that out. I'm done with this. Denny, do you have any idea what it feels like to get shot?”

“I don't. Been knifed a couple of times, but never shot. You got that on me.” Denman was silent for a while.

“I dream about him.” Cole had his eyes closed.

“About Brian?”

“Yes. It's like last year, when I was dealing with that stuff about my father; my dreams about the barn and him beating the tar out of me. But this is worse, because in my dreams Brian is just sitting there, talking. Telling me things. He's telling me . . .”

“What is it, Cole?”

“He's telling me that I'm next. That they are coming for me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Go back and see my shrink, see if he can make my head any smaller?”

“You know what you have to do, Cole.”

“Denny, I can't.”

“Cole, I know you want to come home. I think that you should. But I don't think your dreams are going to go away with a few therapy sessions. You're being haunted, and you're going to have to face this thing.”

After they had talked for a few more minutes, Cole hung up the phone. He had no idea when he would see his best friend or his daughter again.

PORCUPINE HILLS, ALBERTA. SEPTEMBER 3.

ANOTHER TWO WEEKS IN THE
hospital, another round of surgery to insert a metal rod and a series of screws to repair his scapula, and Cole was allowed to return to the Blackwater Ranch. “You're awfully quiet for a free man. Shouldn't we be partying or something?” asked Nancy. “We could drive into Claresholm and go to the hotel and dance with the cowboys.” She, Cole, and Walter Blackwater sat on the porch of the ranch house and watched the sun set over the Porcupine Hills.

Walter held up a bottle of Big Rock traditional ale and smiled. “For me, this is a party.”

Cole reached over and clinked bottles with his brother. “I'm not in much of a party mood, truth be told. I can't stop thinking about what Denman said.”

Nancy put her hand on Cole's. “You know I love Denman. But maybe he's wrong about this. Maybe you've just got to let this go.”

“I don't think this is going to go away. Whoever shot me isn't going to just decide that they've made their point. I'll be looking over my shoulder until this has been solved. Brian was stirring up a hornet's nest. If I can find out which one of those bastards stung him, then we might get somewhere with all of this.”

Walter shared his own take on things. “Maybe Foreman was the set-up man for the murder. He was on the hike to make sure the real killer, someone who came in from outside the group, knew what the lay of the land was. And then, when Brian was dead, the killer took Foreman off the board as well in order to eliminate any possible witnesses.”

Cole agreed. “Blake Foreman's job might have been to watch everything that transpired in the camp. When did Brian Marriott go to bed? When did he get up? Did he have to take a piss in the middle of the night? And what about Cole? He's an early riser. What did he do at 5:00
AM
? Foreman learns the pattern of the camp and then passes it on to the killer.”

“You think Foreman was working with another member of the team?” asked Nancy.

“The only person with motive who was a part of our trip was Rick Turcotte. He felt betrayed by Brian. Maybe Brian had something on Rick that was potentially embarrassing. Plus, he disappeared for a while when we were trying to track down Foreman. Maybe he went off and clubbed the guy.”

“This is a junior Cabinet minister we're talking about,” said Nancy.

“Still puts his pants on one leg at a time,” Cole said.

Walter shook his head. “Maybe the killer wasn't part of the party at all. I think he or she walked in and waited for the opportunity that the set-up man provided. Then, on the morning of the last day of the hike, after Cole went off to meditate”—Walter smirked—“Blake Foreman wakes Brian up. Maybe he says there's some emergency. And that's when the killer strikes. They shoot him in the head and toss him over the cliff. Or maybe they draw him over there to see something and pop! Down he goes.”

All three were silent. Walter picked up his beer and finished the bottle.

“Nice theory.” Cole was still rubbing his shoulder. “So, how do we prove it?”

“I think we have to start back at the beginning.” Walter stood up, his beer bottle hooked on his finger.

“And where is that?”

“The ridge above Crypt Lake. I think we have to go for a hike and look at where all this went down. See what the
FBI
and the
RCMP
and the Park Service missed.”

“You think you're going to find something that
they
didn't?” asked Nancy.

Cole said, “They just treated the campsite, the ledge above the cliff, and the spot where Brian's body was found as the crime scene. But if our theory is right, then the killer had to be somewhere close by. He had to be hiding out. He didn't just walk up that trail from Waterton Lakes that morning. That would be too big a risk. Someone might have seen him, and it's a hell of a long way. We go back and try and find something that the feds overlooked. We always leave something behind. You taught me that, Walt. Even the lowest-impact camper leaves some small mark. Crime-scene people say the same thing. We need to find whatever it is that the killer left behind.”

“You boys are talking about going camping.”

“Why not?” asked Walter. “I've got nothing better to do.”

“I can't carry a pack right now, Walt.”

“We'll go light. And I'll hump your gear. Hell, I've been doing
that
all my life.”

GLACIER NATIONAL PARK, MONTANA. SEPTEMBER 8.

“I NEVER GET TIRED OF
this.” Walter Blackwater stood, hands on his hips, and looked down at Crypt Lake. Light shone between rows of serrated peaks, creating alternating bands of deep shadow and dazzling brilliance across the water.

Cole stood next to him, doubled over, his left arm in a sling, his right hand holding his shoulder. “How many . . . times have . . . you been . . . up here?” he said while gasping for air.

“I don't know, a bunch.”

“I'm wasting my life, Walter.”

“You climbing the stairs to your office every day?”

“Twice a day, but it's nothing compared to this.”

“You want to set up where you were before?”

Cole straightened up and caught his breath. “Yeah, let's. I think it's a fair bet that the
FBI
have gone over
that
location with a fine-tooth comb.”

Before leaving the cliff's edge, they examined the crime-scene location. There were remnants of the tape the rangers had set up to mark off the path of contamination between the cliff and the campsite. “The forensic guys had a tent set up, Walt. Do you know what that was for?”

“They were looking for blood spatter. They set the tent up to protect the site and then wait for dark. They sprayed the whole place with Bluestar. It's a latent bloodstain reagent. It reacts with the hemoglobin in the blood when it's exposed to ultraviolet light. You can't see it in daylight though.”

“Do you know what they found?”

“No, but if Brian was shot here”—Walter pointed—“there could be microscopic droplets of blood fanned out all over the place.” Walter was squatting, examining the ground.

“They teach you that at cop school?”

“We call it
NLET
. The National Law Enforcement Training Center.”

“What was with the dog? When we were flying off the mountain that day I saw a dog.”

“Sniffer dog.”

“Tracking the killer?”

“Sort of. Those dogs are trained to smell tracks. They can smell disturbed soil, even rocks that have been kicked or turned over. The forensics guys use them to determine the path of contamination. Then they zero in and look for evidence along the path. The techs from Lethbridge would have searched this whole mountaintop with a metal detector. I didn't hear that they found anything; no discharged shell casings.”

Cole shook his head. He and Walter strode the last five hundred feet to where the group camp had been set up. Walter dropped his massive backpack on the ground next to a bench constructed of flat stones. Cole took off his hip pack and put it down.

“How's the shoulder?”

Cole sat and put a hand on it. “It's alright.”

“The stitches okay?”

Cole moved the sling aside and pulled down his shirt. There was no blood showing through the gauze pad. “Yeah, fine. Let's eat and then we'll reenact our version of events and sleep on it. See if anything comes to us.”

Walter opened his pack and pulled out a small tent and two light-weight sleeping bags. He then found his stove and fuel bottle and in a few minutes had water boiling. He added the contents of a freeze-dried backpacker's meal and stirred, steam rising around him.

Cole quipped, “What, no appetizers? No canapés? Next time I'll hire a different outfit.”

Walter reached farther into his pack and pulled out two cans of beer. Cole's face brightened. Walter opened one of the cans and handed it to his brother. “That make things better?”

“Damn right!”

They drank their beer and ate dinner. As the sun fell behind the peaks to the west, Cole stood and stretched. “I wish Nancy was here.”

“I can understand her wanting to get back to work.” Walter was tidying up their dishes.

“She's got some sources in Vancouver that she can work with on this. You know, the feds really hung me out to dry.” Cole looked pale despite the rosy light.