William Krueger - Heaven's keep

Cork took one of the chairs and Stephen another. Quinn walked to the map on the wall. He pointed to a black pin near the top of the map. The other pins and the highlighted corridors spread out south of it.

“This is where radar contact was lost.” He moved his finger down a few inches. “This is where the snowmobilers reported hearing a plane fly low overhead. Now, normally a plane is going to follow certain flight lines, or vectors, dictated by the FAA. This is way off any vector. But if the plane was in trouble and if the snowmobilers were right, then the plane may have turned back and been trying to clear the mountains and find a flat place to land. Maybe the pilot hoped to make it to Casper. We just don’t know.”

Cork leaned his arms on the table and studied the map, which showed all of Owl Creek County and portions of the adjacent counties as well. “Have you sent planes over the area to the east, between the mountains and Casper?”

“Yes.” Quinn studied the map and shook his head. “We’ve checked most of the logical locations, but it’s a lot of country to cover and most of it’s deep in snow.”

Cork waved toward the window. “But there’s not much snow here.”

“Sometimes the mountain ranges-the Absarokas, the Bighorns, and the Wind River Range-divide the big storms and they end up sliding north or south of us. Creates a little microclimate here in the basin that’s often quite moderate in the winter.” He went back to the map. “We have nearly a dozen planes involved, CAP volunteers and a few pilots and aircraft on loan from the Air National Guard out of Cheyenne. And there’s Rude’s chopper. Several of the pilots are scanning the High Plains east of here, the rest are over the Absarokas. The mountains in the Washakie Wilderness area here”-he pointed toward one of the highlighted corridors-“are promising if you’re thinking a plane might try an emergency landing. There are some very high, relatively barren plateaus where it might have a chance of coming down safely. We’re looking particularly hard in that area. But there are two basic problems. One is the snow, of course. It’s fallen so deep at the high elevations that it’s covered everything.” He kept his eyes on the map and hesitated.

“And the other problem?” Cork said.

He shot out a frustrated breath. “We’re not at all certain that we’re searching in the right places, Cork. Except for the report of the snowmobilers, we have nothing to go on after the plane dropped off radar. The pilot could have proceeded northwest along the same vector, hoping to poke through the storm. Commander Nickleson has planes searching that vector. He could have swung north toward the airport at Cody or southeast toward the one at Riverton. CAP planes are flying those areas, too. See, we just don’t know.”

Cork looked at the map and felt the weight on his shoulders grow heavier. “Even with a dozen planes it seems like a lot of area to cover.”

“Believe me, it is,” Quinn said.

“We saw a woman on CNN, the wife of one of the passengers, an Arapaho woman, I believe. She said her people were involved in the search.”

“Ellyn Grant.” Quinn didn’t sound happy. “Yes, they’re involved. They have one plane in the air. It’s flying a search grid over this area. The Teton Wilderness.” Quinn pointed southwest of the black pin where radar contact had been lost. “It’s not a flight pattern that any pilot would logically follow, but she claims one of her people has had a vision of the plane coming down there. So that’s where they’re looking. She’s not happy that we’re concentrating on the Washakie and east.” He sat down across from them at the table. “Okay, what did you have in mind?”

“I’m not sure,” Cork said. He looked at Stephen. “We were kind of hoping we could go up in one of the planes.”

“How about a helicopter instead?”

“Sure,” Stephen jumped in.

“Our chopper pilot, Jon Rude, had a mechanical problem this morning. Delayed him a little. He’s scheduled to take off in about an hour. I’ll contact him, ask him to take you along. If he’s willing. It’ll be his call. Fair enough?”

“More than,” Cork said.

“Where are you staying?”

“We haven’t decided.”

“The hotel that’s on the grounds of the hot springs is excellent. A fine little place that’s on the National Register of Historic Places. This time of year you should have no problem getting a room.”

“Thanks, Dewey.”

“Wait here. Let me give Jon a call.”

He left the room.

“What do you think?” Cork said to Stephen.

“We’re here and that’s good. We’re going up in a helicopter and that’s good. And Deputy Quinn is really nice and that’s really good.”

The deputy had been gone only a few minutes when another officer entered the room. He was tall and bulky, and he fixed Cork and Stephen with the eye of a hunter.

“Who are you?” he said.

Cork stood up to introduce himself. “Cork O’Connor. And this is my son, Stephen.”

The man made no move toward them to shake hands. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for Deputy Quinn.”

“He brought you back?”

“That’s right.”

“Briefed you?”

“Yes.”

“Do what he says, clear?”

“Crystal.”

“All right then.” He turned and left.

“Who was that?”

“Sheriff Kosmo would be my guess.”

“Not very talkative.”

“You got his message, didn’t you?”

“Well, yeah.”

“ ’Nuff said.”

A few more minutes, then Deputy Quinn returned. “Okay, we’re all set. We’ll meet Jon at the airfield in fifteen minutes. Did you see Sheriff Kosmo?”

“He stopped in to have a word,” Cork said.

“One word, period,” Stephen added.

Quinn laughed. “If Jim likes you, Stephen, you sometimes get two. All set?”

“Yes.” Stephen leaped to his feet.

“Then let’s go.”

As they passed the contact desk, Quinn said to the deputy there, “Kiss-My-Pulitzer still around, Bolger?”

“Nope. I stonewalled her and she split.”

“I’m ten-seven for the next hour, unless something new develops with the air search.”

“I copy. Good luck, O’Connors,” Bolger said.

“Thanks,” Stephen threw back and gave him a wave.

Outside, the mountains to the west were blue-white under an azure sky. “The airfield’s up there,” Quinn said, pointing toward a massive ridge rising beyond the outskirts of Hot Springs in the direction of the mountains. “Just follow me.”

He got into a departmental TrailBlazer. Cork and Stephen hurried to their Wrangler and followed the deputy out of the lot. They took a street called Carson that cut due west before winding its way up the ridge Quinn had indicated. They passed the town’s water tower and what looked like a small, abandoned mining operation. At the crest of the ridge, the road divided. A sign pointed to the right and read, OWL CREEK GOLF COURSE-PUBLIC WELCOME. Quinn took the left fork, and Cork spotted the airfield immediately, a fenced area with several hangars and a couple of other small buildings beside a single runway. The gate was open, and they rolled through. Cork followed the TrailBlazer to the far side of one of the hangars, where they found the chopper and its pilot waiting.

Jon Rude’s face was all about friendliness, from the laugh lines and the big smile to the wry glint of his eyes. He was Cork’s height, just under six feet, and had a handshake that was firm without over-doing it.

“Thanks for letting us ride along,” Cork said.

“No problem. Ever been in a chopper before?”

“A few occasions doing S and R back in Minnesota.”

“That’s right,” Rude said. “Dewey told me you were in law enforcement for a while. What about you, Stephen?”