The Glacier Gallows (3 page)

“Citizen Marriott.”

Marriott sat down. “I like the sound of that. Parliamentary Secretary Richard Turcotte. I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“Feel free. You can just say
PS
to keep it short.” Turcotte winked at his friend.

“Makes it sound like an afterthought. Congratulations. Junior Minister of Natural Resources. Not bad for a punk from Fort Mac who grew up in the patch. Didn't you start in the business driving a rig in the tar sands? Long way from that now.”

“Not that long, really. I have a hard hat and a pair of work gloves behind my desk at
NRCAN
. Can't forget where we come from.”

“Sometimes I wish we could,” said Brian.

“Working for the greenies getting you down, Brian?”

“I don't work for the greenies. I still work for business.”

“A bunch of squirrel-kissing green businesses. They're not serious about energy. It's just a bunch of enviros who think they can run companies. It's not the same.”

“They think it is.”

“You and I know better, don't we?”

“That's not what I wish I could forget,” said Brian.

“Tell me all your problems. Is everything alright at home?”

Brian sat back in his chair as the server brought water. The men ordered wine. “I don't have any problems,” Brian lied. “Everything is fine. You know a player called High Country Energy?”

“Are they out of Calgary?”

“Cheyenne. Do you know them?” asked Brian again.

“Never heard of them. There's more than a thousand players in the patch in Alberta alone. How is a
PS
expected to keep track?”

“You can just look at your bank statement to see who is making deposits.”

“Funny, Marriott.” It didn't sound like Rick Turcotte saw any humor in it. “I don't think I've heard of them. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing. Just some trouble south of the Medicine Line. They're making a play for unconventional gas on the Blackfeet Reservation.”

“You're not really serious about all this, are you, Brian?”

“What's not to be serious about?”

“Windmills? Really?”

“Why not? We need the energy. Oil and gas are going to run out someday.”

“Yeah, in two hundred years. Maybe.”

“Well, the tar sands might still be around then, but the rest of it will be gone, and we'll be a colony of China, like Taiwan or Tibet, long before that happens.”

“You sound like one of them, you know.”

“I know. It's part of my cover.” Brian hid his frustration by taking a drink of wine.

“Very clever,” said Turcotte. “Now, let's get down to business. No more talk about windmills. We're in the big leagues. We need to get serious.”

“To being upwardly mobile,” said Marriott.

“And to old friends,” said Turcotte.

GLACIER NATIONAL PARK, MONTANA. JULY 10.

IT TOOK COLE, DEREK, AND
Rick twenty minutes to reach the camp. They were all breathing hard and sweating, and the Member of Parliament looked like he was going to be sick from fatigue.

“I made . . . the call. Rangers . . . will be on . . . scene soon.” Derek gasped for breath for a moment and then stood up and addressed Tad. “Is there . . . a way down to him?”

“I think so,” said Tad. “He's not that far from the goat trail down to Crypt Lake.”

“Let's find out,” said Cole, catching his breath. “Is your other guide back?”

Derek looked around. “Not yet.”

“I'm going to check on the rest of the group.” Rick was pale and wheezing.

“Go ahead. Make sure everybody is okay.” Cole turned to Derek. “My brother was on his way up here this morning. Let's see if anybody has called the park wardens in Waterton.”

Derek placed the call and handed Cole the satellite phone. In a moment he learned that Walter Blackwater had been notified and was making his way toward their location on foot. Cole turned to Rick. “Walter will know his way around to the base of this rock wall. Let's see if we can work our way to the bottom of the cliff bands and meet up with him.”

Derek turned to Tad. “Get the big first-aid kit, the nine-mil rope, and a couple of harnesses and let's move.” The three men headed north over the rough terrain to where the cliff fell away.

“Where exactly is he?” asked Cole.

Tad handed Cole a pair of binoculars. “He's right there,” he said. He pointed down at the base of the wall, several hundred feet below.

Cole peered over the edge. He felt the queasy sensation in his stomach that accompanied dizzying heights and spread his legs for stability. “I don't see him.”

“You see that large rust-colored boulder? The one that looks like it peeled off this top cliff band?”

“Yes.”

“Look to the left.”

“Oh, shit.” Cole pulled back and lowered the binoculars.

“Yeah. Oh, shit is right,” Tad agreed.

Cole looked over the edge of the cliff again. “I guess there isn't much question if he's alive.”

“Well, let's get down there anyway. Just in case.” Derek looked around him for the faint trail that cut across the cliffs.

Cole took a moment and looked back at their camp, five hundred feet to the south of the drop-off. Most of the other hikers sat in the dining area next to the kitchen tent. Rick Turcotte was watching Cole. Cole shook his head, and the
MP
raised a hand in acknowledgment. The three men began down the trail at a trot.

The trail was narrow and rocky, dropping over small ledges as it skirted precarious drop-offs. Experienced hikers, the men made good time. In ten minutes they had descended five hundred feet and were at the top of a large talus slope—a cone-shaped field of boulders that had fallen from above over the course of hundreds of years. There was a ledge near the top of the cone, the perfect place for mountain goats to keep a watchful eye on the valley below. The trail dropped steeply toward Crypt Lake below. In places, patches of snow clung to the mountainside.

Cole raised the binoculars to his eyes. “I see my brother. He's not far off.” He handed the binoculars to Derek and watched him focus them. The morning light caught the guide's large silver ring. Football? Americans and their sports memorabilia, thought Cole. Cole marveled at Derek's rough, strong hands and considered his own, softer hands. I used to have hands like that, he thought.

“Alright,” said Derek. “Tad and I will work our way along the base of the cliff to Brian. You wait for your brother. When he gets here, lead him along the rocks here. We'll wait for you at the body.”

“Don't touch anything,” said Cole.

“What are you talking about?”

Cole was silent a moment. What
was
he talking about? “I don't know. Check for a pulse, but just leave him otherwise.”

Derek gave him a sideways glance and said, “Okay. Let's go.” He and Tad set off at a brisk pace and in a few minutes had disappeared around a bulge in the stone. Cole stood for a moment and watched Walter making quick progress up the valley below him. Walter looked up and Cole waved. His brother waved back.

Cole wondered again why he had made the comment to Derek. It appeared to Cole that Brian had simply gotten up in the middle of the night, maybe to go to the bathroom, and had wandered too far. In the darkness it was possible. Maybe he had been spellbound by the dark starry night or had been looking for northern lights, something he had hoped to see on this excursion. Instead he had stepped off the edge of a cliff. Cole waited another few minutes and then walked swiftly to where his brother was huffing up the trail. Despite the dire circumstances, both men smiled. Walter held out his hand and Cole embraced him—Walter awkward with the affection—and then they shook.

Walter spoke as both of their smiles faded. “Let's get to the body.” Walter Blackwater was in forest-green pants and a short-sleeved park warden shirt that was dark with sweat despite the chill. He wore a baseball cap with the Parks Canada emblem on it. On his belt was the HK P2000 service pistol that all enforcement wardens in Canada had recently been issued. Walter, after fifteen years with Parks, had recently made the transition from jack-of-all-trades to law enforcement. His foray into the backcountry along the border was a rare diversion from his duties patrolling Waterton Lakes' front country.

“It's this way.” Cole pointed up the steep trail, and the brothers started to pick their way across the rocky debris field at the base of the cliff.

They were silent as they walked. Walter's radio crackled and he reached for it. The dispatcher's voice said, “William-one, are you on scene?”

“This is William-one. I'm two minutes away. What is the status of the Glacier Rescue bird?”

“They'll put down in five.”

“Alright, we'll communicate directly once they are on station.”

“Agreed. Waterton out.”

“William-one out.” Walter reclipped the radio to his belt.

Another minute of walking and the pair came upon Derek and Tad, squatting at the base of the crag. Cole introduced the men and Walter went straight to work. “Did you check for vitals?”

“We did.” Derek was staring vacantly toward Crypt Lake. “Nothing. He's dead.”

The corpse lay a dozen feet away from the cliff wall, face up, his legs straight out and perpendicular to the rock wall. His arms were bent awkwardly and broken from the five-hundred-foot fall. There was little recognizable of the man's face. He was marred by abrasions and covered in blood. A hole three inches wide at the center of his forehead revealed fragments of bone; brain matter protruded from the torn skin through clots of blood.

Walter checked for vital signs once more. Then he looked up at the steep cliff face. It wasn't perpendicular, and Walter surmised that Brian Marriott had likely rolled as much as fallen down the rock wall. “Alright, gentlemen, we need to clear this scene. The
US
park rangers will be down in a few minutes, and we're going to want to take a closer look at Mr. Marriott here. Did any of you move anything other than to check for a pulse?”

Derek shook his head. Tad swallowed hard.

“Okay. I'd like one of you to head back up top and lead the park rangers down to this site, please.”

“I'll go.” Tad stood and wiped his hands on his pants.

“Cole, Derek, would you two please wait for me just over there?” Walter pointed.

Both men nodded dumbly and walked a few dozen feet from the corpse. Cole had never seen his brother at work before, and despite the grizzly circumstances, he felt proud of the way Walter took control. He watched from a distance as Walter removed his backpack, found a pair of latex gloves in his first-aid kit, and pulled them on. Walter then examined the mangled corpse again; this time he looked more carefully at the man's features.

Cole and Derek heard the search and rescue helicopter circling above them and in a moment it came into view, banking widely over the drop-off before disappearing again. Then the helicopter's rotors fell silent and Cole sensed the stillness of Brian Marriott's final resting place. He realized that he was numb. Despite having worked with Brian for the last six months, and hiking in the backcountry of Glacier with him for five days, Cole felt oddly detached from the body his brother continued to examine. Walter removed a compact camera from his bag. “I was bringing this along for family photos,” he said. “I didn't expect to be doing
this
.” Walter took a dozen photos of the body, from every angle.

When he was done, he stowed the camera and then gently examined the underside of Marriott's head. He stared at the cracked skull for an unusually long time. Cole watched as if outside himself as Walter picked up his radio, changed the channel, and began to speak. “Glacier Rescue, this is Waterton portable, how do you copy?”

“This is Glacier Rescue, we read you five by five; loud and clear.”

“What's your location?”

“We've just touched down. What's the situation?”

“We've got a male, identified as the missing party, deceased.”

“Alright. We're waiting to hear from your medical examiner if it's alright to sling out the body. We'll be down in ten minutes or so.”

Walter turned his back to Cole and Derek, but the still morning carried his voice. Cole listened as his brother continued. “Glacier Rescue, we've got a complication.”

“Go ahead.”

“We'll need the
ME
to confirm this, but I'm pretty sure this man was shot before he fell.”

OTTAWA, ONTARIO. JANUARY 12.

“COLE, IT'S BRIAN MARRIOTT CALLING.”

“Morning, Brian.”

“Morning. Do you have a minute to talk about something that's happening down along the Rocky Mountain Front?”

“Sure. Alberta or Montana?”

“Both, really. You remember Joe Firstlight?”

“Of course, but I only met him once, when we got together in Calgary in November.”

“We talked last week and he told me that the Blackfeet Business Council has gone behind closed doors and voted to green-light the shale gas-fracking plans.”

“You're kidding me.”

“Nope. Dozens of wells.”

“Those wells will be within a few miles of Glacier National Park.”

“That's right, Cole. But more important from our perspective is what it means for our wind-energy prospects for the region. With the council voting to open the door to the frackers, it closed the door for our association members to get in on the ground floor of wind energy on the reservation.”

“I don't get it,” Cole said.

“I don't either. Joe tells me that the council has said they only have capacity for one energy project on the res at a time.”