The Glacier Gallows (28 page)

“We know one of them is considering the gubernatorial race next year; the second one just got out of the military. I don't know about the third boy. I'll see what I can find.” Nancy sounded pessimistic about their chances.

“What's happening in Ottawa?”

“Well,” and Nancy sounded a more positive note, “it looks as if there is going to be a special session of the Natural Resources Committee on Monday. The minister is going to appear. The Opposition wants his head on a stake. Also, a motion has been put on the agenda to have Rick Turcotte officially booted from the committee.”

“Has the
RCMP
gotten involved?”

“Not yet. I've handed a file over to the detachment here, and I've been on the phone with Reimer a lot. They're taking this seriously, but things are moving very slowly. With three police forces involved, there is a lot of conference time that is bogging down the investigation.”

“Do you think I should go to Special Agent McCallum with what Thompson told me?”

“Wait until you're back in Canada and then call Reimer. Oh, and I almost forgot with all the excitement: remember my hacker friend in Vancouver was looking into those emails sent to Brian? The death threats? She got a hit. It would appear as though the same person who sent the death threat to Brian sent the message to Derek McGrath telling him that Chip Prescott wouldn't be showing up for work.”

“Did she give you a name?”

“Nothing. Just an
IP
address linked to a Google account. But she did give me a location in Browning. An Internet café. It's attached to a video-rental place.”

“Great. Just about anybody involved with this could have set that up.”

“I've turned that over to the
RCMP
. I think Reimer said that McCallum would case the joint, so if you're in Browning today, keep your eyes open.”

“I will.”

They disconnected, and Cole drove north and turned off the Interstate at Great Falls. He stopped to get something to eat and realized that Great Falls was where Charlie Crowfoot allegedly committed suicide. When he was done eating, he stood up, hurried back to Walter's truck, and drove to the detention center. He pulled into the parking lot and sat in the truck for ten minutes. He looked at himself in the rearview mirror. He looked like he felt: a bloody mess.

Cole got out of the truck, walked across the parking lot, and went into the public reception area. He presented himself at the counter. “Can I help you?” asked a man in uniform.

“My name is Cole Blackwater. I wonder if I might speak to somebody about the death of Charlie Crowfoot?”

“You with the press?”

“No. I'm just a citizen. Mr. Crowfoot was a friend, and I'd like to see about providing some comfort to his family.”

“Well, his family has already been down to collect his things.”

“Not material comfort. I just have a few questions. Do you mind if I talk with someone?”

The man picked up a phone and said a few words and hung up. “Have a seat. Someone will be right with you.”

Fifteen minutes passed and finally a man in a law-enforcement uniform appeared and walked over to Cole. “What the hell happened to you?” he asked when Cole stood up.

“Disagreement in a bar.”

“Looks like the bar won.”

“In a bar, not
with
a bar.”

“Sergeant Dale Johnson,
US
Marshals. I really can't talk with anybody about Mr. Crowfoot.”

“Sergeant Johnson, I am the man who was arrested for the murder of Brian Marriott. Mr. Crowfoot allegedly sold me the weapon that was used to kill Mr. Marriott.”

They sat at Johnson's desk and drank coffee. Cole said, “My question is simple: who had access to Mr. Crowfoot before his death?”

“The
FBI
asked all these questions. You think you're going to come up with something they didn't?”

“Probably not,” Cole lied. “But given the state of things, it couldn't hurt.”

“Could get me fired.”

“That's a chance I'm willing to take,” cracked Cole.

Johnson laughed. “That's mightily good of you. There were a dozen guards on that night. All of them have been run through the
FBI
's database for known affiliations. Special Agent McCallum has interviewed them all. They all say the same thing. Crowfoot smuggled a length of cord in with him when he was taken into custody. He got it from his pants and into his jumpsuit. It was a very thin piece, maybe an eighth of an inch. The Evidence Response Team at the
FBI
called it ‘utility cord'; it's made from the same stuff that climbing rope is made from. It was just long enough that he could loop it over the top of the door when it was being closed. Our guard didn't notice it. Mr. Crowfoot then tied off the other end in a noose, slipped it around his neck, and suffocated himself.”

“That is a hell of a way to go. You make it sound like he was planning to kill himself when he went in.”

“It does seem that way.”

“But we know now that he had nothing to do with Brian Marriott's death. He didn't sell me a gun. He was set up. Why would he do that?”

“Beats me. The
FBI
is handling this now,” said Johnson dejectedly.

“Did anybody come to see him while he was here?”

“He had a few visitors.” Johnson read from a file open in front of him. “His mother and sister came down to see him. His lawyer, a public defender supplied by the
BIA
. And a former employer, a man named McGrath.”

“Derek McGrath?”

“You know him?”

“Sure. His company guided the trip that Brian and I were on when Brian was killed.”

“Well, this Crowfoot kid worked for Derek the last two summers.”

“Not as a guide.”

“I don't know. I didn't ask.”

Cole intended to ask. This was news to him. “Did any of these people give Crowfoot anything?”

“No. That is strictly forbidden.”

“Not even a note, or a letter?”

Johnson scanned the file. “I don't see anything on the personal-effects list. If they did, it would likely have been returned when his mother and sister came back to collect his effects.”

Cole stood up and offered his hand. “Thank you.”

“Don't mention it. I mean that—don't tell anybody you and I had this conversation, please. I'm feeling pretty busted up about losing someone on my watch. If this helps, you didn't hear it from me.”

WHEN COLE LEFT
the detention center, he noticed, for the first time since leaving Wyoming, that he was being followed.

COLE GOT CELL-PHONE
reception again when he got closer to Browning. He called Joe Firstlight. “Joe, it's Cole.”

“Oki, Cole.”

“Oki. I'm just coming into town, Joe. I wonder if I could buy you dinner at the Junction.”

“Sure, Cole. What time?”

“About an hour from now. I have to see someone first.”

JOE FIRSTLIGHT HAD
given Cole directions to Charlie Crowfoot's house. In the fading light, Cole drove the back streets of Browning. It took some time for him to find the house that Joe had described, and as he searched he became convinced that, despite his many years working in Vancouver's Downtown Eastside, he had never seen poverty like what existed on the Blackfeet Reservation. He understood why so many people were so desperate for the few jobs that the fracking operations would bring. He parked in front of a dirty white trailer whose roof had collapsed in the rear. He walked up to the front door, which was swinging open in the wind. He knocked and called, “Oki.”

A young woman in tight jeans and a T-shirt that showed her soft belly came to the door. “What do you want?” She looked to be in her late teens. She eyed Cole with suspicion.

“Are you Mary?”

“Yeah, what do you want?”

“I've come to talk with you and your mother about your brother.”

“He's dead.”

“I know that, Ms. Crowfoot. My name is Cole. Is your mother here?”

“Yeah. Hold on a minute.” She yelled something into the dark home. It was on the western edge of Browning, and Cole could see into the rear yard, which was strewn with garbage and kids' toys and a rusting swing set that looked like it could send a toddler to the hospital with a serious case of tetanus. Cole could also see the Rocky Mountain Front against the evening sky. The sunset was gaudy with orange and red clouds. It was beautiful yet made Cole feel weary at the same time.

“Yeah?” A voice brought Cole back from his reverie.

A diminutive older woman was at the door. While Charlie's sister was in her teens, this woman looked to be at least sixty. Cole immediately assumed that this was Mary's grandmother, and that both parents were out of the picture.

“Mrs. Crowfoot, I'm Cole Blackwater.”

“You an Indian?”

“No.”

“You got an Indian name.”

“I'm Irish.”

“What happened to your face?”

“I got in an accident. Mrs. Crowfoot, can I ask you a few questions about Charlie?”

“Why you want to come and talk about Charlie?”

“Because he went to jail for something he didn't do.”

The old woman regarded him coolly. After a long, uncomfortable minute for Cole, the old woman's resolve seemed to dissipate. “Come in.”

Cole stepped into the trailer, and Mrs. Crowfoot pointed to a sagging lime-green couch. Cole could see that the back half of the trailer had been partitioned off with a piece of plywood and a sheet of plastic that was duct-taped to the water-stained walls.

“Mrs. Crowfoot, I'm very sorry about your son.” The woman started to cry quietly. “Someone told the police that Charlie sold
me
a gun. He didn't. But he went to jail. I understand that you and your daughter went to visit him. I don't want to take more of your time than I should, but I have a few questions.”

Cole sat silently while Mrs. Crowfoot cried. Mary came in and put her hand on the woman's forearm. “Charlie was my grandson. Both his parents are dead. I been raising him. But it's a lotta work for an old woman, and raising kids today isn't like it used to be.”

“I have an eleven-year-old daughter,” said Cole. “I understand.”

“Charlie got into some trouble, I know. But he wasn't selling guns.”

“I know that too. The
FBI
had information that Charlie had sold a gun, but people had been paid to say that. It turns out that another man was here in Browning to trick Charlie and the police. His name was Blake Foreman. I've been told that a man matching his description was with Charlie. Did Charlie talk with you about him?”

“We never talked about this.” Mrs. Crowfoot was twisting her hands. “Charlie was a good boy. He got in a little trouble, but so do all the kids. He never hurt no one.”

“When you went to see him in Great Falls, did he say anything to you about what happened?”

“He told me that he sold a man a gun and that he was going to have to go to jail.”

“But—”

“My brother told me that that was what he had to do,” Mary Crowfoot chimed in.

“Did he say who told him that?”

“No. He didn't tell.” Mary looked down at her feet.

“Did you know that Charlie worked for a man in East Glacier for a while? A man named Derek McGrath?”

“He the one who is the mountain guide?” asked Mrs. Crowfoot.

“That's right.”

“Yeah, our Charlie used to drive people from the airport in Kalispell or Great Falls up to East Glacier for him,” Mrs. Crowfoot said.

“When was that?”

“He done it for the last couple of summers.”

“This past summer?”

“I don't know. I don't think so. Charlie got some other work this past summer.”

“Mrs. Crowfoot, when you went to Great Falls the last time, after Charlie died, did the marshal give you any of his things?”

She looked at Mary and the girl went into a bedroom at the front of the trailer and came back a few minutes later with a brown paper bag. “This what you mean?” asked Mary.

“I think so. May I?” Mrs. Crowfoot nodded. Cole opened the bag. There was a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a hoodie. A pair of running shoes gave the bag a distinct odor. A baseball cap was tucked next to the jeans, and under it was a brown manila envelope.

“What's in here?” Cole asked, holding up the envelope.

“Some letter or something.”

Cole opened the envelope. There was a single sheet of paper in it. “You haven't read it?”

“It's in Blackfeet,” said Mary. “I don't read Blackfeet.”

“And your grandmother?”

“She reads it but said she didn't want to look at his things.”

Cole unfolded the paper and looked at the note. It was only two lines long. “Do you know if this is something that Charlie wrote?”

“I don't know,” said his sister. “He was practicing to learn Blackfeet, but I don't know if he ever did. I don't think he knew how to write it, because he didn't know too much how to write English neither.”

Cole studied the note. “May I take this to my friend Joe Firstlight and see what he says?” Mary looked at her grandmother, who was crying again. She nodded her agreement. “I promise to get this back to you.”

“I think you should go now.” Mary sat back down next to her grandmother and put her hand on her arm.

Cole stood up. “I am very sorry for your loss.”

“He was a good boy, Charlie,” Mrs. Crowfoot said.

“I'm sure he was.” Cole showed himself out of the house. When he stepped into the yard it was dark and cool, and he drew a deep breath and held it a long time. Cole knew, in a way that he could not explain, that he was still being watched.