“We need to talk,” Cork said. “We found the plane you buried.” He glanced at the whiskey she held. “But I’m guessing you already knew that.”
“The plane I buried? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s not what Dewey says.”
“No? What does Dewey say?”
She spoke slowly, and Cork figured the drink in her hand was not her first.
“You really want us to stand here and discuss this in such a public way?”
She thought it over and finally stepped aside. Once they were in, she closed the door and locked it. Cork found himself in a small, comfortable living room decorated with much of the same kind of Arapaho art he’d seen in Nightwind’s home. Grant led them down a short hallway to the kitchen, which was at the back of the house and was illuminated by the overhead light and by the last of the daylight. A bottle of Canadian Club, more than half empty, sat on the table. A chair was already pulled out, and Grant dropped into it and laid the rifle across the tabletop. Cork drew out a chair for Quinn and shoved him into it. He sat in one of the other chairs, and Parmer took the last.
“My wife wasn’t on the plane with the others, Ellyn,” Cork said. “What happened to her? Where is she?”
“I don’t know anything about your wife.”
“Quinn swears you’re involved up to your eyeballs. He says you knew everything.”
She looked at Quinn and shrugged. “Then it’s my word against his, isn’t it?”
“Who were you expecting, Ellyn?” Cork nodded at the rifle on the table. “Gully and Mike? They’ll be looking to clip those threads that tie anyone to them.”
Grant didn’t respond.
“Even if we have trouble connecting some of the dots, the big picture is crystal clear, Ellyn. There’s no way your Gateway Grand Casino will ever get off the ground.”
“We’ll find another way to bring revenue to the reservation,” she replied, as if unconcerned.
“Maybe the Arapaho will, but you won’t be helping them do it. You and Lame Nightwind are finished here.”
“Lame had nothing to do with anything.”
“We know he flew the charter plane.”
Grant took a long drink of the whiskey.
“I’m willing to bet he did it for you,” Cork said. “I’m willing to bet he did it all for you because he loves you. See, love is something I know about because I lost the woman I love. What did you do for Lame, Ellyn? Did you love him? Or did you just use him so that you could be the great savior of the Arapaho?”
Grant closed her eyes against his words, and a softness came into her face that might have been the effect of the alcohol. She was quiet for a long time. Beyond the kitchen windows daylight continued to fade.
“Love,” she finally said and smiled. “Of all the Great Creator’s great creations, it must be the most sacred and shapeless.” She opened her eyes and looked dreamily at Cork. “I love Lame Nightwind, oh yes. And I love the Arapaho. And I love this country, the Owl Creek Reservation, even though to the eyes of a nahita it probably looks like a wasteland. I love the vision I had for my people. And I’m just drunk enough, Cork O’Connor, to say that in my way I love you because you’ve shown me something important. You’re right. There won’t be any Gateway Grand Casino, no easy way out for the Owl Creek Arapaho, but I’ve come to understand that maybe it’s for the best. Maybe Edgar was right. Trading on the weakness of others makes us weak as well. The Arapaho have always been a strong people. I lost my faith in our strength. We have endured much. And we have much yet to endure. But endure we will.” She lifted her glass in a toast and drank again.
“Ellyn, what happened to my wife?”
She considered him and shook her head with drunken sympathy. “You love her, don’t you? Lucky man. Lucky woman.” She stared out the kitchen window at the darkening sky. “That white door your son saw? She’s behind it.”
“What do you mean? What white door? Where?”
Grant took a long, deep breath, but before she answered, the window glass shattered and her head flew back as if she’d been kicked in the face and her chair tipped over and she tumbled to the floor. The next shot hit Dewey Quinn, caught him in the right shoulder and spun him out of his chair and onto the kitchen floor. Parmer lurched from his seat and hugged the floor. Cork grabbed the rifle from the table. It was a Marlin carbine, and he worked the lever to be sure there was a round in the chamber. He crawled to the wall next to the shattered window.
“Kill the light,” he told Parmer.
Parmer scrambled across the floor, hit the wall switch, and the kitchen went dark. Cork and his companion cautiously peered through the window. Two figures were racing away across the field behind Grant’s home. Cork leaped to the back door, fumbled with the lock, finally flung the door open, and tore outside. He caught sight of the two men again just as they ran into a line of trees that followed a stream on the far side of the field. Headlights came on, and a black Jeep Cherokee sped away. Cork knelt, lifted the rifle to his shoulder, and pulled off four rounds. Near the bridge at the other end of the field, the Cherokee swung onto the paved road and rocketed away.
Cork ran back to the house and found Parmer on his knees next to Ellyn Grant. There was a hole the size of a nickel above her left eye and beneath her head a rapidly spreading pool of blood.
Quinn lay on his back, groaning, the clothing over his right shoulder a wet mess of red.
A furious pounding came from the front door. “Open up!”
Cork went quickly to the living room, unlocked the door, and swung it wide.
Andrew No Voice stood there, weapon drawn. At his back were a number of Arapaho, and among them stood the tall, white-haired priest. “Put your gun down! Do it now!” No Voice ordered.
Cork laid his firearm on the floor.
FORTY
Sheriff Kosmo arrived by helicopter, courtesy of Jon Rude. Through the window of No Voice’s office, Cork watched the chopper land in the gravel parking area. The headquarters of the tribal police was a long, narrow one- story cinder-block construction at the southern edge of Red Hawk. It was separated from the school grounds by a field of irrigated alfalfa. As soon as the helicopter touched down, Kosmo leaped out and headed for the headquarters’s door. No Voice didn’t get up when Kosmo walked in. He just nodded toward Cork and Parmer and said, “All yours, Jim.”
Kosmo stood with his beefy arms crossed, staring down at the two seated men. “You talk to ’em?”
“Yeah,” No Voice said.
“Don’t suppose you wrung a lock-solid confession out of ’em.”
“They were cooperative. And they didn’t do it.”
“How do you know?”
“Earl Vixen, next house up the street from Ellyn’s, he was out in the yard with Kong, that Chihuahua of his, waiting for his dog to take a crap. Corroborated O’Connor’s account of the men firing from the field out back. It took a while for Earl to stroll over here. Told me he didn’t say anything to anybody cuz he was concerned someone might come looking for him, too. He’s still here. I got him in a back room working on an official statement. Bottom line is that at the moment a lot of folks in Red Hawk are under the impression these two killed Ellyn. I’ve had some pretty irate calls already. I didn’t want to turn them loose until I was sure they had safe passage to Hot Springs.”
“I’ll have Rude fly them back,” Kosmo said, then he addressed Cork. “You able to ID the guys?”
“I didn’t see them, but I have a good idea who they were. One calls himself Gully. The other is Mike.”
“Last names?”
Cork shook his head. “They were the two who tried to take us out at the plane.”
“Them and Dewey, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Where’s my deputy, Andy?”
“In a holding cell in back. He’s got himself a pretty good flesh wound. I had Grace Lincoln from the clinic
