“We worked it out together. With some help from Gully and Mike.”
“Ellyn couldn’t persuade him any other way?”
“He couldn’t be bought. And he was too old to be swayed anymore by her other obvious charms. Me, I was happy just to get him out of the picture.”
“Yeah, and how’d it feel murdering all those people, murdering Sandy Bodine?”
“I’ve killed men before, O’Connor. From what I’ve been told, you have, too, so don’t go all sanctimonious on me. We both had our reasons.”
“What did you do with Bodine’s body?”
“Burial at sea, so to speak. On my way to Aurora, I flew over Lake Superior and dumped him. You know what they say about that lake? Never gives up her dead.”
“What about Stilwell?”
“That wasn’t my doing. Mike and Gully said they sank the body in a bog somewhere in the Wisconsin woods. God only knows where.” Nightwind eyed him levelly. “So how about it? You going to let me go?”
The wind sent snow between them and against them, and Cork felt the cold kiss of it on his face.
“How do I explain it to the wives of the men who died on that charter plane? How do I explain it to Becca Bodine?”
“Tell ’em you did it for love. They’ll understand.”
“And if I let you go, you’ll tell me where my wife is?”
“That’s the deal.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“Same goes for me. As soon as you have what you want, what’s to prevent you from shooting me? Mexican standoff, O’Connor.”
Nightwind grinned, lifted his hand as if it were a gun, and pointed it at Cork.
The shot came from behind Cork and above him. Nightwind’s body jerked with the impact of the round, and he looked startled, then his knees buckled and he dropped to the ground and lay bleeding into the snow. Cork went to him quickly. Nightwind stared up into his face and blinked several times as if stunned.
“Lame?”
Nightwind grunted. “Should’ve known you wouldn’t come alone.”
Cork heard the scrape of boot sole on rock, and a moment later Hugh Parmer was at his side holding the Weatherby he’d taken from Nightwind’s ranch.
“Why did you shoot?” Cork said angrily.
“I thought he was going to shoot you.”
“He didn’t have a weapon, Hugh.”
“I thought…” Parmer looked at the wounded man’s empty hand. “Christ, I couldn’t see. The snow, Cork.”
Nightwind coughed blood. “Looks like neither of us gets what we wanted, O’Connor.”
Cork set his rifle down and gently lifted Nightwind and cradled his head. “Lame, I swear to God I’ll deliver these men to justice. Just tell me who they are. Tell me where my wife is.”
Nightwind breathed with great difficulty, and a sickening rattle came from deep in his throat. He said, “You love her, O’Connor, and love’s brought you a far piece. This is hard country. It’s full of hard men, but you bested them all. There’s a good deal in you to admire. If love was everything, you’d have what you came for. But there’s one thing love can’t do. It can’t give you back the dead. You won’t see your wife again. Not in this life.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“She’s been dead since almost the beginning.”
“If she’s dead, where’s her body?”
“A place you’ll never find without my help.”
“Tell me.”
Nightwind struggled for breath, then said, “Give me your promise you’ll go after these men. Even if the law can’t get to them, you will.”
“You have it.”
“Something to write with? I don’t want you to forget.”
Parmer pulled out his wallet and plucked a piece of paper from among the folded currency. He dug inside his coat and drew out the pencil stub.
As Nightwind spoke, Parmer wrote down the information he provided, which was the name of the place Cork would find Jo, the names of the three men responsible, the name of a bank in Denver, and the number of a safe- deposit box there.
“In the box,” Nightwind said. “All the evidence you need to get these guys. Been gathering it for years. Insurance policy, you know? Photos, tape recordings, records. Your wife. Others before her. It’s all there. In the hands of a good prosecutor, it’ll put these assholes in the gas chamber, I swear it.” He grabbed hold of Cork’s coat sleeve. “Get them, O’Connor. Promise me you’ll get them.”
“I promise.”
Nightwind let go.
Parmer handed the paper over, and Cork read the name of the place where Nightwind had said he would find his wife. He was baffled.
“Bonita, Mexico?” he asked.
“In Sonora,” Nightwind said, nearly breathless.
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.”
Parmer said, “Maybe we can bind your wound, Lame.”
Nightwind shook his head. “It’s over. Just let me go.”
Cork told Parmer to round up the horses. Parmer looked down at Nightwind. Then he looked at the rifle he’d used to fire the fatal bullet. Finally he turned and walked away into the snow to find the horses.
It wasn’t exactly over. Nightwind lingered for another hour. He spoke no more and struggled simply to breathe. Cradled in Cork’s arms, he stared up at the falling snow, and when the snow stopped and the wind blew the clouds away he stared up at an evening sky filling with stars. The canyon ran near the foot of Heaven’s Keep, and the great formation stood white and imperious in the last light of day. At the very end, just before Nightwind took his final ragged breath, his eyes drifted to the cold face of rock, and it seemed to Cork that a sense of satisfaction settled over Lame Deer Nightwind, as if he’d just been given the answer to a great question. Afterward Cork followed the dead man’s gaze to the top of Heaven’s Keep, which appeared to be among the stars themselves, and he thought that maybe if he climbed there he could look into the face of God and understand all the tragedy that had brought him to that place.
But in his head he knew that he would never climb. And in his heart he doubted that he would ever understand.
FORTY-FIVE
It was an old Spanish mission, whitewashed stucco, set amid saguaro cacti and creosote bushes, with the Sierra Madres in the distance under a cloudless blue sky. Blooming bougainvillea climbed the courtyard walls, and the flowers of a large garden grew in the shade of desert willows. At the center was a fountain bubbling softly.
In the office where they sat waiting, Cork, Stephen, and Parmer could hear the fountain through the open window.
There was a knock at the door. A man and a woman entered. The man was dressed in an expensive gray suit and wore a blue silk tie. The woman wore tan slacks, a white blouse, and an embroidered blue vest. She was older than the man. Her hair was gray and her eyes were calm brown.
Cork and his son and Parmer stood, and they all shook hands and sat down together around the table.
The man in the suit had a small mustache, thin and black against his olive skin. He spoke with a Hispanic accent. Cork had met him earlier, briefly. His name was Ramirez. “I have brought Sister Amelia. She was
