“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.
ELEVEN
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.”
Sure enough, Dewey Quinn had just walked into the Antelope Grill. He was accompanied by a young blond woman, a real looker, dressed to kill. He’d changed into civilian clothes and was wearing creased blue jeans and a white sweater with a thick turtleneck. They walked to the bar. The woman sat on a stool, leaned toward the bartender, and said something that made him laugh. Quinn laughed, too.
“Should we ask him to eat with us?” Stephen said.
“He’s got a date, Stephen.”
“Please.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to ask. You want to deliver the invitation?”
“Sure,” he said with surprising eagerness.
Cork watched his son cross the restaurant with a long, awkward gait and approach Quinn. The deputy turned to him and smiled. He introduced Stephen to the woman, who shook his hand delicately. Stephen spoke. Quinn looked toward Cork and carried on a brief discussion with the woman. She nodded, picked up the glass of white wine the bartender had given her, slid from her stool, and followed Stephen and Quinn to the table. Cork stood up.
“Stephen made us an offer we couldn’t refuse,” Quinn said. “Cork, this is my wife, Angie. Angie, Cork O’Connor.”
She was younger than her husband. She had on a red dress that slid easily along the intriguing contours of her body. She wore gold earrings and a gold necklace. She smelled of a good, subtle perfume. Her hand, when she gave it to Cork in greeting, was soft and felt uncomfortably intimate in his.
To Cork’s great surprise, his son pulled the chair out for her to sit. Like so much else about Stephen, whenever Cork saw him put into practice what had been drilled into him at home, he was still a bit amazed. Angie purred him a thank-you.
The waitress was there almost immediately. “Need a menu, Dewey?”
“We’ve already ordered,” Cork told Quinn.
“Just give me the rib eye, rare, Estelle. And a baked potato, the works.”
“Will do, honey. And you, Angie?”
“I’ll have the chicken Caesar.”
“And put that on our check,” Cork said.
“No,” Quinn objected.
“Please,” Cork said. “A small way to say thank you, and, besides, I have an ulterior motive. I’m going to pump you for information.”
