William Krueger - Heaven's keep

The sun was being eaten by the western Absarokas when Rude said it was time to turn back. It would be dark soon. As the chopper curled toward Hot Springs, he said, “What I don’t understand is why the pilot, if he was having mechanical difficulty, didn’t turn north toward Cody or south toward Riverton. Both have airfields where he could easily have landed. Why try for Casper? I mean, assuming what those snowmobilers heard was your wife’s plane.”

“Maybe they were wrong,” Cork said. “Maybe the pilot did try for one of those airfields.”

Rude shrugged. “We’ve gone over both those corridors. Nothing. Hell, if he’d only been able to make radio contact, at least we’d have some idea where to concentrate our search. As it is, we’re kind of shotgunning it. Scattered, you know.” He glanced at Stephen and added heartily, “But we’re going to keep looking until we’ve covered every reasonable acre.”

The mountains became deep blue in the twilight, and the canyons between were like dark, poisoned veins. Though the sun had dropped below the rest of the range, it hadn’t yet set on Heaven’s Keep, which towered above everything else. Its walls burned with the angry red of sunset, and it looked more like the gate to hell than anything to do with heaven.

As they flew back over the reservation, the land was black and empty as far as the eye could see. Rude, who seemed to read Cork’s thoughts, said, “The rez covers thirty-four hundred square miles, an area the size of Rhode Island and Delaware combined. The number of people who live here could just about squeeze into a double-decker bus. It’s empty, uninviting country. But to the Arapaho it’s home and it’s sacred.”

A short while later, Rude set the chopper down on the landing strip at the Hot Springs airfield.

“You two have dinner plans?” he asked. “My wife’s Italian. She makes pasta like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Thanks,” Cork said, “but we’ve got to get ourselves into a hotel.”

“Got one in mind?”

“Dewey Quinn recommended the hotel on the grounds of the hot springs.”

“A good choice. When you’re ready to eat, try the casino. Good food, good prices. Just a mile or so south on Highway 27. Can’t miss it.” He shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and looked west, where darkness had swallowed the mountains. “Look, there’s a lot of territory still to be covered. We’ll give it another go tomorrow and every day after that until we find them.”

“Can we go with you again?” Stephen asked. Cork was amazed at the hope still evident in his son’s voice.

“Absolutely. I’ll make sure Dewey knows that. Let’s rendezvous here at oh-seven hundred hours.”

“Seven o’clock,” Stephen said.

“Right you are. I’ll take a look at that helmet, Cork, but I won’t promise anything.”

“Thanks, Jon.” Cork shook the man’s hand gratefully.

Rude set about securing his chopper. Cork and Stephen got into their Wrangler and headed toward town.

Day Four, Missing 82 Hours

The Excelsior Hotel was a sturdy little two-story structure of brick with a lovely courtyard whose centerpiece was a small octagonal pool fed by the hot springs. The night was turning cold, and a thin cloud of vapor that smelled faintly of sulfur drifted up from the pool, giving the courtyard a mystical appearance.

The woman at the front desk had passed along to Cork a message from Dewey Quinn, which was to call him at the sheriff’s department. After they’d carried up their luggage, Cork used the room phone.

“How’re you doing?” Quinn asked.

“Okay. We’d be a lot better if we’d located my wife.”

“I wish I had something good to report from the other search planes.” He didn’t say anything for a moment. “Jon told me you’re going out with him again tomorrow. You okay with that? I can ask one of the other pilots, if you’d like.”

“We’re fine with Jon as long as he’ll have us. You work long hours,” Cork said.

“I’m just about to call it, get myself something to eat.”

“Dewey, thanks for everything.”

“Just wish I could do more. Good night, Cork.”

Next he called home and gave Rose a rundown of the first day in Wyoming. Stephen was in the room, and Cork wasn’t as candid as he might otherwise have been. “There are lots of good people working hard out here to find the plane,” he told Rose. “Also, there’s a thing called an ELT that sends a signal if the plane has crashed. Nobody’s picked up that signal. There’s still plenty of reason to believe we’ll find Jo.”

He didn’t mention that the snowdrifts were deep enough to bury a school, that the canyon walls could rip off wings and pulverize a fuselage, or that they had no idea if they were even looking in the right places.

“I’ll keep praying,” Rose said.

“And I’ll keep you posted,” Cork promised.

“Are they okay?” Stephen asked after his father put the cell phone away.

“They’re fine. Worried, but fine.”

“Worried?” Stephen said. “I remember when worried meant I was afraid you’d burn the meat loaf.”

It wasn’t really funny, but Stephen laughed, and Cork laughed, too, and he realized not only how taut their nerves had been drawn but how well, all things considered, Stephen was handling this. He threw his arm around his son’s shoulders. “Let’s go get a steak,” he said. “I’m famished.”

Half a mile outside of town, they passed a sign that told them they’d just entered the Owl Creek Reservation, home of the Owl Creek Band of Arapaho.

The Blue Sky Casino was, as Rude had said, on the highway, just about a mile south of Hot Springs. Compared to the Chippewa Grand Casino back in Minnesota, it was a modest-size establishment set in a kind of strip mall with an Old West facade-wooden sidewalk, wood overhang supported by wood uprights, hitching post railing. The BP gas station at the edge of the highway looked modern and jarringly anachronistic, but there was probably no way to disguise a gas pump. The Antelope Grill was attached to the casino but had its own entrance off the wooden sidewalk. The parking lot was only a quarter full.

The place smelled of meat on a grill, and the decor would have pleased Buffalo Bill. It was all about hunting, with trophy heads of deer and elk and antelope mounted above the booths, and a buffalo hide as big as the back end of a semi tacked to a wall near the entrance. The music of the casino slots funneled into the restaurant through the door that connected the two establishments. Cork and Stephen were seated near the bar and handed large menus. Cork asked if they had Leinenkugel’s, and when he was told they didn’t he requested a Fat Tire. Stephen asked for a Coke. They sat at the table, quiet and exhausted. Their drinks came and they ordered. Cork got the prime rib, Stephen a cheeseburger and fries.

“Feels like forever ago that we left Aurora,” Stephen said.

“To me, too.”

“I hope…,” Stephen began.

“What?”

Stephen seemed to be searching for the right words. “I hope we find Mom. I thought that once we got here it was going to be easy. But today…” He looked away and didn’t finish.

“Still a lot of ground to cover, buddy. She’s out there somewhere. We’re going to keep looking till we find her.”

“Promise?”

Now it was Cork’s turn to look away. His eyes settled on the huge buffalo hide splayed on the wall. It seemed to him that what was left of the animal was trying to climb out of that place.

“Promise?” Stephen pressed.

Cork gazed into his son’s dark, expectant eyes. “Promise,” he said. Stephen sat back, satisfied. “Look!” He pointed toward the bar, and Cork followed his gesture. “It’s Deputy Quinn.”