“Well, there you are,” Grant said.
“There you are where?” Quinn said.
“Giant’s Gate. The doorway to Baby’s Cradle and Sleeping Baby Lake.”
“Really?” Stephen appeared to have shed all his weariness, and his body fairly vibrated.
Grant turned her dark, cold eyes on Quinn. “Two visions to your what, Dewey? Blind logic? You go right ahead and do whatever you people need to do. We’ll keep flying over Baby’s Cradle. Nice to meet you, Stephen. Cork.” She turned and walked away.
Stephen watched her go. “Could she be right?”
Cork looked to Quinn. “What do you think, Dewey?”
“Baby’s Cradle isn’t anywhere near any of the flight paths the plane might have followed. I suppose if there was instrument failure, Baby’s Cradle might be a remote possibility. But I can’t justify pulling planes off the search of the other vectors based on…” He paused.
“Visions,” Stephen finished for him.
Quinn looked at him. “Yes.”
Stephen sat back, sullen, and said nothing more.
“Stephen, Will Pope is not the most reliable man you’ll ever meet. He has a fondness for alcohol.”
“So? That doesn’t mean he can’t receive visions.”
“No, but it certainly makes me cautious about what he says.”
“You mean you don’t believe him. Have you talked to him?”
“No.”
“Well there you are.”
Quinn’s wife looked bored out of her mind. Cork said, “We’re pretty tired. We’ve got another long day ahead of us tomorrow. Stephen and I are going to call it a night.”
For a moment, Quinn looked as if he was about to say something more to Stephen, but he didn’t. His wife looked as if she’d just been released from prison. She quickly folded her napkin, slid her chair back, and stood up. “Well, thanks for dinner. Dewey, it’s still early. Let’s gamble a little.”
Quinn joined her, and she took his arm. “Cork, you’re heading out with Rude again tomorrow, so I’ll be in touch.” He shook Cork’s hand. “Good night, Stephen.”
Stephen stared at his empty plate. “Yeah, ’night.”
The couple walked away. As they headed toward the casino, Quinn slipped his arm around his wife’s inviting waist.
After they were gone, Cork said, “If I were Dewey, I’d be making the same call, Stephen.”
“You didn’t see what I saw.”
“No. But what you saw is open to interpretation, and how can you be sure this Giant’s Gate is it?”
“Because from what Ms. Grant said it matches my vision.”
“Stephen, there are probably lots of scenarios that would match your vision.”
“Yeah? What about this Will Pope guy? What about his vision?”
“I don’t know him so I can’t answer that.”
“Maybe we ought to get to know him. Maybe he’s like Henry Meloux.”
They talked more as they drove back to the hotel. Stephen was absolutely convinced now that looking east of the mountains was wrong. At the hotel, they carefully studied the map they’d bought at the airport in Cody, and Cork pointed out how far away from any reasonable flight pattern the lake lay. But the more they discussed the issue, the more adamant Stephen became.
“There’s a door somewhere,” Stephen said, “and Mom’s behind it. All we have to do is find the door.”
Finally Cork suggested a compromise. They would fly with Rude the next day and get his take on Baby’s Cradle. Because he was part Arapaho, he might also have a reliable opinion about Will Pope. After they returned, they would find Pope for themselves and see what he had to say.
They got ready for bed and watched a little television, and in no time at all Stephen was sleeping. Cork lay staring at the ceiling. His mind was too crowded. He finally got up, put on his robe and slippers, dropped the room key card into his pocket, and went outside. He walked down the stairs to the courtyard, which was misty from the vapors of the pool. The night was cold and he knew he couldn’t stay out long, but the air felt refreshing and what he could see of the sky was full of stars. He thought about Jo somewhere, staring up at that same sky-cold, lost, scared, maybe injured. He tried to shake off that image.
Against the black of the sky rose the nearer black of the Owl Creek Mountains. Beyond them, beyond the wide, desolate stretch of the reservation, lay more mountains, higher mountains. This was different country from home. This was a harsh, difficult place, and he hated it. Hated the way all the land rose up like walls. Hated how all that emptiness could so easily swallow a plane and its passengers. Hated that it seemed to be a land with no heart.
Henry Meloux would argue with him, he knew. Meloux would say that there was no part of Grandmother Earth that was without heart, without spirit. The fault lay not with the land but with Cork’s expectations, with his own wounded spirit. Listen to the land, Meloux would probably advise. The land will reveal its heart. The land will tell you its truth.
But not that night. That night Cork heard only the chill wind that came off the high country in a long, empty sigh.
TWELVE
Day Five, Missing 94 Hours
Today we fly to Casper,” Jon Rude said as they climbed into the chopper. “A couple hundred feet above ground the whole way. Bird’seye view of every gulch and draw and butte from Meeteetse to the North Platte. How does that sound?” He winked at Stephen.
Stephen said, “Could we fly over Baby’s Cradle?”
“Baby’s Cradle?” Rude slipped his flight helmet on and began flipping switches. “You’ve been listening to Will Pope.”
“Ellyn Grant,” Cork said. “We ran into her at the Antelope Grill last night.”
“Ellyn.” Rude nodded. “Piece of work there.” The rotors began their sweep. “Buckle in, gentlemen.”
“What about Baby’s Cradle?” Stephen said.
Rude scanned the area around the chopper, then glanced at Stephen. “See, the thing about old Will Pope’s visions is that sometimes they’re less the result of some spiritual visitation than they are of alcohol.”
“Ms. Grant seems to think this one is real.”
“Hell, maybe it is,” Rude allowed.
“So what about Baby’s Cradle?”
“You want my advice?”
“Yes,” Stephen said.
“I think we ought to stick with the flight plan for today. I want to fly low and slow. If there’s anything sticking out of some snowdrift on those high plains, I want to find it.”
“What about the search of the mountains?” Cork asked.
“There are ten aircraft working the mountains. I talked with Dewey Quinn this morning, and he spoke with Commander Nickleson in Cody. We agreed that a low-level flight over the area between the Absarokas and Casper is worth a shot. If that plane tried to limp back to the airport and had to come down, it could be lying in a deep wash somewhere, buried in snow. That’s what we call the Red Wall country. It’s rough and it’s empty. I’d rest easier knowing we took a good look at it. Wouldn’t you, Stephen?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“And if we come up empty-handed, I’ll take you to Will Pope myself and make the introductions.”
“You know him?”
“I’m part Arapaho. I know everyone on the rez.”
“All right.”
