The Glacier Gallows (24 page)

“Did the
RCMP
get into it?”

“They did. They asked me about it and I opened it.”

“Can I have a look?”

Jane led him to the office at the back of the house and opened the closet. Cole looked at Brian's desk: it was neat and orderly.

“Did the
RCMP
take Brian's computer?”

“Yeah, they said they needed to go through it.” Cole already knew much of the contents from his own cyber-snooping. “Here you go, Cole. There's not much here.”

She was right. There were a few files with mortgage and insurance papers, along with a small amount of American money and a few old passports. “Would Brian put files anywhere else to keep them safe?” Jane seemed to be lost in thought, and then shook her head. “What?” Cole asked.

She led him out of the office and into the kitchen. She opened the freezer. “He called this ‘keeping things on ice.' I forgot that he used to do this.”

“A little paranoid?” asked Cole, knowing the feeling.

“A little. But I hadn't seen him do it in ages.” The freezer was mostly empty. Jane lifted out an overflowing container of ice cubes and found a small manila envelope wrapped in a freezer bag at the bottom of it. She put the tray down in the sink as Cole sat at the breakfast table and opened the envelope.

Thick frost and ice fell onto the wooden tabletop. Cole studied the documents. First there was a biographical sketch of Charles Wendell. Cole knew Charles from his time in Ottawa. Six years ago, Charles had been a door-to-door canvasser collecting donations for Greenpeace. It seemed that he had graduated. Beneath that was a photo of David Canning, the Minister of Natural Resources, with another older white man Cole didn't recognize. The third man in the picture was Chinese. They were fishing.

Cole put those two pieces on the table and looked at the next sheet of paper. It was a printout of an email sent to Brian the past spring, a month or so before the ill-fated hiking trip. Cole didn't recall having seen it when he and Nancy hacked Brian's email. He read it now. His face grew hot.

“What is it, Cole?” asked Jane.

“It's a death threat against Brian.”

COLE WAS STANDING
in the kitchen of Brian Marriott's house, talking on his cell phone. He had Inspector Reimer's card in his hand. “I'll take this material into the
RCMP
detachment in Ottawa. Does that sound okay to you? Good.” He hung up. “Is there a copy center in this area?” Cole asked Jane Marriott.

“IS THIS CHARLES
Wendell?” Cole was sitting on the bed in his room at the Lord Elgin. He had been to the
RCMP
detachment and dropped off the material Jane had found in Brian Marriott's freezer. Cole had his laptop open and was on Charles's Facebook page, flipping through photos of the young man hiking.

“Who's this?”

“It's Cole Blackwater.”

“Really? Where are you calling from?”

“I'm in Ottawa.”

“No shit.”

“Yeah, listen, I was wondering if you wanted to have a beer. Maybe over at D'Arcy McGee's?”

“Sure. That would be fine. What time?”

“Nine?”

“Sounds good. I'll see you then, Cole.”

COLE HAD ANOTHER
appointment before he could meet Charles Wendell. He caught a cab outside the hotel and had it drop him near the Imperial Suites and Residences in the Golden Triangle district of downtown. He'd learned that Rick Turcotte rented a room at the Imperial for his lengthy stays in the nation's capital. Cole had then called Hy's Steakhouse, asked to make a reservation in Turcotte's name, and learned that a table was already being held for 8:00
PM
. Cole was banking on the parliamentary secretary being at his suite before heading for dinner. He stood outside the hotel for twenty minutes before his gamble paid off. Rick Turcotte, dressed casually in a sports coat, slacks, and a sweater, exited the hotel.

“Rick!” called Cole, running a few steps to catch up with the man as he walked toward Elgin Street.

Rick stopped and turned. “Cole?”

“Hey, Rick.” Cole extended his hand.

“What are you doing here?” Rick looked around and then shook Cole's hand. He started walking again.

Cole had to walk fast to keep up. “I'm doing some work in town.”

“For whom?”

“My client Nexus.”

“And you just happened to be outside my hotel?”

“I'm staying down the street at the Motel 6.”

“I see. Coincidence.”

“So, I haven't seen you since the whole thing in Glacier. How are you, Rick?”

“Cole, I don't know if I should be talking with you. About this.”

“Why? I was cleared of any wrongdoing.”

“It's just that . . .”

“Just one question then, Rick. Brian got
into
something. I want to know what he got into that made someone so afraid that they had to kill him.”

“You think I had something to do with it?” Rick stopped and looked around.

“I think you know what buttons Brian was pushing. Tell me about the relationship between David Canning and the Chinese ambassador to Canada.”

“Listen, Cole, I'm not going to play this game with you. You know, I blame
you
for Brian's death. You're the one who got him going on this whole climate-change kick. You're the one who turned him into some kind of zealot. Did you know he videotaped the minister at a function here on the Hill last winter and then posted it on YouTube?”

“Brian told me about that. Your minister has a big mouth.”

“Careful, Cole—”

“He does! Anyway, that's more Charlie Wendell's style. Brian had his epiphany all by himself, Rick. You can't blame me for that. So let's get back to the point: what did Brian find out about David Canning, the Chinese ambassador, and this senator from Wyoming that nobody wanted him to know?”

“Cole, I have dinner plans. I'm late. And the House sits tomorrow, so it's going to be a big day.”

“Rick, your former friend, the man who raised money so you could sit in the House of Commons, is dead and I think you know why.
You
might even have had something to do with it. If memory serves me correctly, you had every opportunity the night Brian was killed to lure him out of his tent. Hell, he trusted you more than just about anybody else on that hike.”

“I doubt that very much, Cole.”

“You had every opportunity to kill Brian. You also could have killed Blake Foreman. You went off to make a phone call, then his body was found.”

“I made that call. The minister's office's records will show that. You're grasping at straws, Cole. And I have to go.”

“Yes, big day tomorrow,” said Cole.

“Yes, the House opens.”

“Better hold on to your hat, Rick.”

COLE TOOK A
circuitous route to D'Arcy McGee's, walking six blocks out of his way to circle past Parliament, watching over his shoulder for anybody following him. D'Arcy McGee's was normally quiet on Sundays, but this was the day before the House of Commons sat for the fall session, and political operatives had started arriving in town earlier that day. Cole could feel the buzz when he stepped into the bar. It was like a shot of adrenaline that coursed through his system.

Cole performed his perfunctory scan of the room. After years of walking into bars and searching for friends and foes, he finally had reason to. The last time he'd been in this pub was the night before he was fired from the Canadian Conservation Association. His world had been falling apart. Estranged from his wife and daughter, he had dug his own grave.

Cole ordered a Guinness Steak-and-Mushroom Crock and stood with his back to the bar, eavesdropping on fragments of conversations. His food came and he turned and ate but kept an eye on the door. At nine o'clock sharp, Charles Wendell entered. He was wearing a thick beard and a baseball cap. Cole realized that he looked a lot like both Blake Foreman and Derek McGrath.

“Cole!” Wendell walked straight up to him and embraced him.

“Hi, Charles. Good to see you again. Parliament opens tomorrow? You here to bag someone?”

“Bagging” meant using some piece of information to embarrass a politician in the House or in the press. “We'll see.”

“You've been camping?”

“Yeah, every chance I get. When you called, I was just on my way back from the Gatineau Hills.” He ordered a beer.

“I was hoping you might help me with something. I'm trying to pick up where Brian left off—”

“Not a good idea, man. Look, I think Brian was a decent guy, but he was on the wrong track. And between you and me, I think maybe his heart was still with his old team.”

“I think you're wrong, Charlie.”

“Nobody calls me that anymore, Cole. It's just Charles now.”

“I think you're wrong, Charles. I had my doubts at first too, but I believe that Brian saw the light. He had his moment of reckoning. You might not like how he was approaching it, but he was on our side.”

“The guy was selling out the movement, man! He wanted to give the big oil companies a free pass in the tar sands!”

“Our best hope is to phase out the tar sands over ten or twenty years. Use the money to pay for a transition to renewable energy. We're the only country outside of Saudi Arabia that could do it.”

“I see he got to you too. I remember Cole Blackwater being a take-no-prisoners street fighter.”

“The only thing that being a street fighter gets you is a shit-kicking. I'm tired of being angry. I want solutions. It's harder work, but sometimes pragmatism has to win out over protest.”

“What Brian wanted was power, not pragmatism, and he was making it impossible for the rest of us to hold the line. The planet is burning and we don't have twenty years to fuck around with transitions.”

“It's going to keep burning as long as people like you continue to ignore reality. We've got to wean people off the tar sands, not quit cold turkey. I hate it, but it's reality.”

“Fuck your reality, Cole.”

Cole reached into his jacket. He could feel his pulse racing. He pulled out the envelope and put it on the bar. “What's that?” asked Charles, sounding like a petulant child.

Cole opened the envelope and pulled out the photo of David Canning and his two fishing companions. Cole tapped on the second man in the picture. “Do you know who this is?”

“Never seen him before,” said Charles. “Who is it?”

“Lester Thompson.”

“Who's he?”

“Former
US
senator, a big player in politics: foreign relations, energy, armed-services committees. Now he's the
CEO
of High Country Energy.” Cole had done his homework. “And this”—Cole pointed to the Asian man in the photo—“is Ban Sun Lee. He's the Chinese ambassador to Canada.”

Cole pulled the email printout from the envelope. He handed it to Charles and watched his face. “It's a death threat emailed to Brian before he was murdered.”

“Who's it from?”

“I was hoping you might help me figure that out.”

The third piece of paper was Wendell's biography. Cole put it down on top of the other two sheets.

“What are you trying to pull, Blackwater?”

“These three sheets of paper were in Brian's freezer.”

Charles looked at all three pieces of paper. “I've never seen this email before in my life. Obviously, Brian made some enemies.”

“Why would your bio be in with this package?”

“I have no idea.”

“I've handed this over to the
RCMP
. The email had been permanently deleted from Brian's computer, but they have some tools they can use to get it back and trace the
IP
address. I think you hated Brian Marriott just enough to want him dead. I think you found out where we were going hiking in Glacier and followed us.”

“I think you're a fucking nut.” Charles pushed the papers aside and pulled on his coat.

“You were in the Rockies this summer.”

“No, I wasn't.”

“You're such a punk, Charlie. You always were. You posted photos of a hike in Waterton on your Facebook profile. The date is July 20. That's a week after Brian was killed.”

“Those were from last year. I just got around to posting them.”

Wendell started to walk away, and Cole grabbed his arm. Wendell turned on him, his right fist swinging for Cole's head. It was a telegraphed punch and Cole had plenty of time to get ready for it. Despite the persistent ache in his shoulder, Cole easily turned into the punch. He pulled Wendell's arm into his chest and gently flipped him onto the floor. He pinned him there. Several other patrons moved away from the grappling pair.

“Hey! Take that shit outside!” the bartender yelled.

“Cole, you asshole, let me go!”

“Calm down,
Charlie
, or you're going to get hurt.” Cole could feel the pain in his shoulder and knew he wouldn't be able to hold the struggling man much longer.

“Outside!”

Cole released Charles, and the young man stood up and straightened his jacket.

“Shall we?” asked Cole, pointing to the door.

Charles looked around the bar. Half the establishment was watching them. He walked toward the door, Cole a dozen feet behind him.

When Cole stepped through the door, he had little time to react to the patio chair that hit him in the chest and face. He fell backward into the door, rattling it. He pushed the chair off in time to see Wendell running down Sparks Street Mall.

OTTAWA, ONTARIO. SEPTEMBER 12.

“YOU SCARED THE SHIT OUT
of me,” Cole complained when he opened his hotel room door and found Nancy sitting on the bed.

“What happened to you?” she asked. He was holding a bloodstained cloth napkin to his mouth.