beautiful and intricate beadwork, hand drums, and pottery. On a tripod sat a large sign that read “Absaroka Gallery. Fine Work by Arapaho Artists. One mile east on Highway 57.”
“Nice work,” Cork said.
“Lots of talent on the rez,” No Voice replied with pride.
They passed a bulletin board crowded with notices and flyers: an announcement for a banquet to honor the high school football team, the Eagles; a lot of want ads; a big poster giving the warning signs for a meth lab. They approached a door with a small white plaque mounted on the wall beside it, identifying the office of Owl Creek Reservation Enterprises. No Voice swung the door open and stood aside for the others to enter.
“Here they are, Ellyn.”
It was a large room with filing cabinets, a computer workstation, and a long table with half a dozen empty chairs around it. Grant sat at a desk of polished wood that was positioned in front of a window with a view of the empty powwow grounds not far away. Open before her lay a folder of documents with pages full of numbers. She was wearing glasses and held a yellow pencil. She smiled and said, “Thank you, Andy.”
No Voice pulled the door shut and remained outside. Grant closed the folder, put the pencil down, stood up, and went to the long table. “Please,” she said, “have a seat.”
Occupying the center of the table was an architect’s model, a miniature construct of a complex of connected buildings surrounded by miniature mountains with ski runs. The model was labeled: “The Gateway Grand Casino, a joint project of the Owl Creek Arapaho and Realm-McCrae Development.”
“We didn’t really have a chance to talk last night,” she said. “And the Antelope Grill isn’t the kind of place to have the kind of discussion I’d like to have.”
“And what kind of discussion is that?” Cork said.
“People we love are missing. My husband. Your wife.” She offered Stephen a look of deep sympathy. “Your mother. I’ve barely slept since I got word. And I’ve been all over Dewey Quinn trying to get him to expand the area of the search they’re making.”
“To include Baby’s Cradle?” Cork asked.
“Exactly. With all due respect to Sheriff Kosmo, he’s a nice guy but he’d need help finding his way out of a closet.”
“It’s my understanding that Commander Nickleson in Cody is in charge of the search.”
“Dewey Quinn has lots of influence with Nickleson, and Quinn takes his orders from Jim Kosmo. If Kosmo says forget about Baby’s Cradle, Quinn won’t push it.” She sat back, and for a moment her eyes drifted out the window toward the winter landscape of Red Hawk. When she looked at Cork again, she appeared deeply troubled. “You talked with Will Pope. What do you think?”
“I don’t know Will Pope.”
“I liked him,” Stephen jumped in.
“I’m glad,” Grant said. “I like old Will, too. A lot of people are eager to write him off because of his drinking, but this vision of his, well, it seems to me to have a lot of merit.”
“Put yourself in the place of Sheriff Kosmo or Dewey Quinn,” Cork said. “They’re working with limited resources and in a desperate time frame. They’re having to make decisions that seem to them the most judicious at the moment.”
“Spoken like a member of the cop fraternity,” Grant said. “But I understand you’re part Ojibwe. Listen to that part of yourself.”
“Wouldn’t matter. I’m not in charge of the search and rescue operation.”
“If Kosmo gets enough pressure from those of us with a sincere stake in the outcome, maybe he’ll swing some of the search planes our way.”
“Our way?”
“I need your help. Have you seen the most recent weather forecast?”
“No.”
“Another storm system is heading this way. In a couple of days, it’ll hit the Rockies and we’ll get more snow in the high country. Anything not buried now will most surely be buried then.”
All along, Cork had known they were working against impossibilities-the cold, the harsh terrain, the size of the search area, its emptiness. Yet he’d struggled to hold to a hope, however remote, that Jo and the others had survived the fall from the sky and that it was only a matter of finding them. Now even this fragile hope was about to be shattered. He tried not to show his devastation, tried not to let Stephen see.
“We have two days, Cork,” Grant said.
“We’re going to Baby’s Cradle tomorrow,” Stephen said. He still sounded buoyed by hope.
“That’s good,” Grant said. “But wouldn’t it be better if other planes joined you? A few eyes are fine, but many eyes are best.”
“Dad, we could talk to Deputy Quinn?”
“Talk to Kosmo,” Grant said.
“All right,” Cork agreed.
“And, Jon, why don’t you give Lame Nightwind a call. He’s been flying the Baby’s Cradle area. He can tell you what he has and hasn’t covered. Maybe you two can coordinate.” She stood up, and the others did, too.
“What is this?” Cork asked, nodding toward the architect’s model on the table.
“Our next venture,” Grant said. “The Gateway Grand Casino. We’re building it near the entrance to Yellowstone. When it’s completed, it will be the largest casino complex between Atlantic City and Las Vegas.”
“Looks like it’ll offer a lot more than just gambling.”
“World-class ski slopes, hundreds of miles of snowmobile and hiking trails, and everything else the Rockies and Yellowstone have to offer.”
“The Blue Sky Casino must be doing better than it appears.”
“It’s doing well enough,” she said and headed for the door. No Voice was still waiting in the hall. “We’re finished here, Andy. Thanks for the help.” She shook Cork’s hand and then turned to his son. “It was a pleasure talking with you, Stephen.”
“I didn’t say much.”
“We Arapaho have a saying: When there is true hospitality, not many words are needed.”
He smiled. “Thanks.”
Outside the sun was dropping behind the mountains. The light was fading fast. The dark blue shadow of the Absarokas had already swallowed the foothills, and Red Hawk was next. No Voice got into his Blazer and drove away. The town felt more deserted than ever. Stephen and Rude headed directly to the truck, but Cork hesitated for a minute in the parking lot.
The light of the setting sun fell against the little church of St. Alban on the opposite side of the street. The brass cross mounted above the entrance blazed for a minute as if on fire. As Cork stood watching, a small figure stepped from the shadow of the recessed doorway and looked in his direction. Cork saw clearly that it was a kid, probably no older than Stephen. He was Indian, Arapaho no doubt. He wore a jean jacket with some kind of insignia patch sewn on the shoulder. The kid stared, as if trying to burrow into Cork. Then he stepped back into the shadow of the doorway. It was only a few seconds, but there was something about the solitary figure under the blazing cross that struck Cork in a profound and unnerving way.
“Dad!” Stephen called. “Come on!”
Cork walked to Rude’s pickup, performing without thought a procedure he’d trained himself to follow during his years as a cop: In his brain, he filed away the physical details of the kid where they would remain until he needed to retrieve them. If he ever did.
FOURTEEN
Day Five, Missing 105 Hours
It was hard dark when they reached the airstrip outside Hot Springs.
Rude said, “Why don’t you come home with me and have a home-cooked meal? Diane makes a mean lasagna. And she loves company. You can meet my little girl, Anna. Apple of my eye.”
