The Glacier Gallows (27 page)

Nancy was quiet for a long time. “Cole, are you hearing yourself on this? You're letting your anger get the better of you.”

Cole opened his mouth to vent more, but stopped himself. He drew a deep breath. “You're right. Okay. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. I'm going to stick around Ottawa for another day or so and see if Canning and Turcotte survive this whole debacle. I wish you were here. The whole place is coming unglued over this.”

“I wish I was there too. I'm in some lonesome truck stop outside of Casper, Wyoming.”

“You sound like you're in a cowboy song.”

“Feel like it.”

“Cole, it's okay. It's alright to be angry. Just keep it together. Don't do anything stupid.”

“I'm going to get a bite to eat and hit the hay. I want to be up and at it before sunrise. It's ten hours to Browning. I can get there by midafternoon and see Joe if I get going early.”

“Call me in the morning?”

“I will.”

They hung up, and Cole lay on the bed for a while. Then he pulled himself to sitting, rubbed his aching shoulder, and said, “Alright, Blackwater, you heard the lady. Keep it together.” He went out the door and walked across the parking lot to the Casper Mountain Bar and Grill. The place was loud, with a jukebox playing a selection of Darius Rucker and Corb Lund tunes. Several dozen patrons sat at the bar and at round tables in the dimly lit room. Cole scanned the joint carefully and, seeing no trouble, went to a back corner and sat down where he could watch the door. A waitress in tight jeans and a cut-off shirt approached, and he admonished himself in a preemptive strike against his natural urge to flirt. He ordered a beer and a burger with salad on the side and waited for his food.

When his meal came, he ordered a second beer. There was a strong desire within him to order an Irish whiskey, but he decided against it. He asked for his bill, and while his server went off to print it, he stood up and walked stiffly to the washroom. As he stood at the urinal, he heard the door open behind him, and he felt his shoulders tense. He finished urinating, zipped his fly, and turned toward the sink, but he never made it. A man in a black jacket closed in on him, and before Cole could respond, a fist mashed his face so hard that he stumbled backward and blacked out. He felt his legs go out from under him and the back of his head hit the top of the urinal.

When he was able to focus again, there were two sets of legs before him; someone reached down and started to pick him up. He shook his head as if to clear it and was able to see the face in front of him. He struggled, and the man who was lifting him laughed. Cole felt the wound in his shoulder tearing and he grimaced, but he managed to get his right hand free and quickly threw a jab at the man. His assailant shifted his weight quickly, and Cole's punch connected with the side of the man's head and hurt Cole more than his attacker. The man threw him across the bathroom and he collided with the hand dryer on the wall and then fell to the floor once more. Before Cole knew what was happening, the man had him by the collar again and was throwing him into the toilet stall. The door crashed open and Cole slammed into the back wall and fell onto the bowl. He felt the heat of his own blood gushing from his face.

The man picked him up again. Cole struggled to free himself, but his attacker was strong and uninjured, and he pinned Cole's arms to his sides. Cole couldn't see him—the man was facing away from him—but he could smell something that reminded him of his father—Brut cologne?—mixed with the stench of cigarette smoke from the man's clothing. The second man, who had been blocking the door, approached now.

“Mr. Blackwater,” he said. “I think it would be very wise for you to settle down. You're going to hurt yourself if you don't.” He had dark hair and was smaller than the man who was holding Cole, but not by much.

“Who the fuck are you?” demanded Cole. “What do you want?”

“We don't want anything. But you seem to want a great deal.”

Cole kicked the smaller man as hard as he could. His foot connected with the man's groin, and the man buckled over and fell to the floor. As he did, Cole tried to twist himself free from the viselike grip of the man who held him. With the searing pain in his shoulder, he wasn't able to move. The man on the floor was trying to speak between gasps.

“Fuck . . . him . . . up,” he said. That's when the man holding Cole threw him across the bathroom into the urinal. Cole heard the crack of his own head connecting with the porcelain, and then he crumpled unconscious to the floor.

CASPER, WYOMING. SEPTEMBER 14.

“MR. BLACKWATER.” COLE SWAM UP
through the miasma of unconsciousness. “Mr. Blackwater.” Someone was slapping his face.

Cole was propped up in a straight-backed chair next to the wall in his hotel room. He blinked and shook his head, and the room came into focus. He felt a hot agony in his shoulder and his head felt as if it had come unattached from his neck.

The two men who had beaten him in the bathroom were there; the bigger of the two was standing next to him. The other man was sitting on Cole's bed, hunched over, face white, obviously still aching from the kick to the groin. A third man was in the room. He was wearing a tan sports coat and jeans, with a broad-brimmed cowboy hat set on his head. He had a wide thin mouth of perfect teeth and smooth, almost translucent skin. “Mr. Blackwater. Welcome back.”

Cole wasn't bound in any way, but when he tried to stand, the man next to him put a hand on his injured shoulder and pushed him back down. Cole winced and thought he might vomit. “You're Lester Thompson.”

“I am. I understand that you want a conversation.”

“You always bring your muscle to a friendly chat?”

“I don't think any conversation I could have with you would be friendly, Mr. Blackwater. You're not the friendly sort. I'm here to tell you one thing, and one thing only, Mr. Blackwater. I had nothing to do with your friend's death. Nothing. I don't really care if you believe me. That doesn't matter. But I didn't. And that's all there is to it.”

“If you didn't have anything to do with it, why beat me up?”

Thompson was pacing back and forth between Cole and the bed. “A man in my position can't afford
not
to be clear. If you persist in your little rogue investigation, your little witch hunt, you're going to get hurt. Physically, and in other ways that you couldn't even imagine.”

Cole could imagine a lot of ways that Thompson could hurt him, and they all went through his mind at once. “Brian tripped some alarm. Maybe it's this thing with the nukes in Fort McMurray. Maybe the Blackfeet—”

“Mr. Blackwater.” Thompson held up a hand. “Please, stop. You're not going to ferret anything out of me. There is simply nothing you can do that will cause me to trip up and tell you something that I shouldn't.”

“Why don't you just kill me?”

“As I've said, I'm not in the killing business.”

“But all those people. Brian, Charlie Crowfoot, the Calgary cop?”

“Not my doing, Mr. Blackwater.”

“You're a liar,” said Cole. Thompson shook his head; his smile betrayed a sense of pity. Cole continued, “If you're not responsible, why the heavy-handed tactics? Why send these meatheads to beat the shit out of me?”

“You're a hardheaded fellow who seems to need a wake-up call. While I have done nothing wrong in the matter of Mr. Marriott, you have to understand that my legitimate business interests are now under unnecessary scrutiny as a result of his, and your, crusading. This is unacceptable. You're going to have to take my word that if you continue to try and obstruct my endeavors, there will be very serious consequences.”

Cole watched as Thompson straightened his Stetson. He noticed the ring on Thompson's right hand. It was emblazoned with an emblem that Cole couldn't quite discern, but the eagle and sword made him think it had something to do with the military.

“Did you serve in the armed forces before you went into politics?”

“I did, 1964 to 1968. Vietnam.”

“We don't have the tradition in Canada of military service that you do in the States. I guess it's because we don't fight as many wars.”

“Someone has to keep order,” said Thompson.

“And you have a son in the armed forces.”

Thompson smiled. “I do. My youngest. My older boys both served and have gotten on with their lives. If you think you're being clever, Mr. Blackwater, this is all a matter of public record.”

“Where is your youngest stationed now? He's a specialist—”

“Mr. Blackwater, our time here is nearly up. I've got to be going. My sons have nothing to do with this conversation.”

“It's just that—”

“Sarah's favorite ice cream flavor is Rocky Road.”

“What did you say?”

“Rocky Road. When you last took her for ice cream, she had Rocky Road. She doesn't like it when you drop her off at her mother's and you and Jennifer Polson fight.”

Cole was halfway across the room before either of Thompson's muscle men could move. But when they did, they were swift and decisive. The larger man delivered a blow that Cole decided must have been enhanced by a roll of quarters in his hand. It stopped him in mid-air. A thick rope of blood fell across the bed. Cole hit the floor like a sack of wet laundry.

Thompson remained standing. “You're not going to go to the police. You don't have a passport, and even though you've been cleared of the charges in the case of Mr. Marriott, you would be shown no leniency whatsoever for being in this country illegally. I know this for a fact. You'd be arrested, and it would be your word against mine, and in this part of the world, my word is that of God. You would serve the maximum period of incarceration for entering the
US
without a passport, and it would be a very long time before you got to have Rocky Road ice cream with that lovely little girl of yours.

“Drop your crusade. Go back to Vancouver. Do your little tidal-power projects. Help your friend solve homelessness. Show Nancy Webber a nice time. Leave my business in the tar sands be, and you and I will never see one another again. There will be plenty of days with Sarah for ice cream and tai chi in the park. Keep this up, and you will find that the way I do business is uncompromising, Mr. Blackwater. Do not make this more difficult on yourself than it already has been.” Thompson tipped his hat to Cole as he stepped around him.

Cole watched Thompson step out into the night, followed by his two goons. None of them looked back. The dark-haired man closed the door behind them, and shortly after that Cole heard a car drive away. After a minute he stood up and shakily went to the bathroom to inspect the damage to his face. His mouth was still bleeding, and he thought that maybe he had one or even two loose teeth. His lip was split in two places. He had a cut on his forehead from where he'd connected with the urinal. It would need to be attended to. But that would have to wait. With one of the motel's towels over his bleeding mouth, he went and sat on the bed and picked up the phone. While he was waiting for Sarah's mother, Jennifer Polson, to pick up the phone, he felt some of the pieces of the puzzle snapping into place.

CASPER, WYOMING. SEPTEMBER 15.

HE HAD A LONG WAIT
in the Mountain View Regional Hospital. He had to provide his name, driver's license information, and credit card in order to receive medical attention but was able to avoid having to surrender his nonexistent passport. It was around 4:00
AM
when he got back to his hotel. He had sutures in his lip and forehead and a bruising medical bill. Cole slept for a few hours and by 8:00
AM
was driving north again, his head aching and his shoulder feeling like he was being slowly, repeatedly stabbed.

Once he was on the road, he called Nancy and told her everything that had happened. After the expected protest, and her pleading that he get back to Canada where she and Walter could keep an eye on him, they settled down to business. “So I know what the motivation was,” he said.

“And what is that?”

“The tar sands. The nuclear plant. Thompson let it slip. He told me to stay out of his business, and he used that example specifically.”

“I don't know if that counts as self-incrimination.”

“It means we're close. These guys had to be watching me
before
we went on the hike last summer. Sarah and I went for ice cream the day before I left, remember? I called Jennifer last night. I caught some serious hell, but I think they are safe enough. Jennifer and Sarah were heading out of town for a few days anyway.”

“You called your ex last night, but not me?”

“Don't start on me, Webber. I think we ought to assume that this guy knows all about me. I think he can even monitor my credit card. How else would he have known where to find me last night?”

“Alright, what's next?”

“I'm still on track to get to Browning this afternoon. I don't think I need to spend too much time with Joe, given that we can dismiss the funny business with the Blackfeet Tribal Council as the motive for the murder. Instead, I'm going to head straight to East Glacier and talk with Derek and see what more I can learn about the two dead guides.”

“You know, if Lester Thompson is responsible for this, he could have hired just about anybody to do it. I mean, the guy could have access to crime organizations that you and I only read about in cheap paperbacks.”

“Something tells me he's keeping things closer to his chest than that. I told you about the ring, right?”

“No, what about a ring?”

“Sorry, my head is aching like a bitch right now.”

“You should see a doctor.”

“I did. A mild concussion. Thompson was wearing this ring. Some kind of military emblem on it. Like a fraternity thing. I wonder if this all runs in the family. I can't help but wonder where exactly Senator Thompson's son is right now.”