“They turned around because of the weather?”
“That. Or maybe mechanical trouble. But definitely going back.”
Stephen squinted, putting it together. “So what you’re saying is that they didn’t just drop off the radar and disappear?”
“Yeah.”
“But they still could’ve crashed.”
“Gone down,” Cork said. “I’m thinking this means if they did go down that the pilot may still have been in control. I think that’s important.”
“I Googled the Washakie Wilderness last night. It’s in the Absaroka Mountains. They’re like thirteen thousand feet high.”
“Mountains have meadows, places to put a plane down, Stephen.”
His son thought about that, and although he didn’t do cartwheels, he also didn’t raise any further objections to the hope Cork was trying to offer. He finished his breakfast and went upstairs.
The phone rang again. Cork didn’t recognize the name on caller ID, but the area code was 612. Minneapolis. Maybe another reporter from the Twin Cities. He let it ring.
He called George LeDuc’s wife, Sarah. Her sister answered.
“Gloria, it’s Cork O’Connor.”
“ Boozhoo, Cork.”
“How’s Sarah doing?”
“It’s been a hard night. She’s worried sick. We all are.”
“Who’s there?”
“Flora Baptiste, Lucy Auginash, Isaiah Broom, Wayne and Dorothy Hole-in-the-Day. A few others. Maybe a dozen.”
Word had traveled fast on the Iron Lake Reservation, and relatives and friends had risen to the need of the moment. Cork told Gloria about the report from the Wyoming snowmobilers. Gloria told him that Sheriff Dross had already called. They discussed the implications.
Then Sarah came on the line. She was in her mid-thirties, more than three decades younger than her husband, with a pretty smile and deep brown eyes that were normally full of good humor. Cork imagined that this morning they were different.
“ Boozhoo, Sarah. How’re you doing?”
“It’s hard, this waiting.”
“I know. How’s Akik?”
Sarah and George had a daughter, whose real name was Olivia, but whom they’d nicknamed Akik, which meant “kettle” in the language of the Ojibwe. She was a plump little girl of five, with a fiery temperament and given to letting off steam.
“I haven’t explained the real concern to her. She’s having a good time with all the relatives and friends here. How’s Stevie?”
“Taking it hard.”
“There’s hope, isn’t there, Cork? I mean, they haven’t even started searching yet.”
“Yeah, Sarah.” He looked out the window at the street in front of his house, all golden in the morning sunlight. “There’s lots of reason to hope,” he said, trying to sound as if he believed every word of it. He hesitated before going on. “I got a call a while ago. A reporter from St. Paul. There’s been an allegation that the pilot had been drinking the night before.”
“No. Oh Jesus, no.”
“Yeah. Marsha Dross is checking it out. You might be getting a call from that same reporter or others. Just thought you ought to know.”
“Thanks, Cork.”
He kept Stephen home from school. Father Ted Green, the priest at St. Agnes, dropped by to offer his help and his prayers. Cork thanked him for the prayers and told him he’d let him know about the help part.
The phone continued to ring. At first, he answered the calls from friends. After a while, he just let everything go to voice mail.
Around noon, Marsha Dross called again.
“Have you been watching CNN?” she asked.
“No, why?”
“That snowstorm coming across the Rockies, it’s creating all kinds of problems from Canada down to New Mexico. CNN’s giving it heavy coverage. They picked up on the story of the missing charter flight. And they’ve got the bartender on camera telling how the pilot was drinking like a fish the night before, bragging about owning his own company and that he was so good he could fly a plane through the crack in the Statue of Liberty’s ass. I don’t know how these people do this, but they’ve already got video from the security cameras in the bar, showing this guy slamming ’em back. They’ve also got a statement from the cabdriver who drove him to his hotel. The guy was so drunk the taxi driver had to pull over and let him out so he could puke.”
Cork felt the scorch of fire behind his eyes. “The son of a bitch. If that guy wasn’t probably already dead, I’d-” Cork stopped, realizing that he was caught in the web of a dreadful thought: Already dead. “Thanks, Marsha.”
“I wish I had some good news, Cork.”
“Yeah. Keep me posted whatever you hear.”
“You know I will.”
He put down the phone and stared at the wall.
Already dead? Was that really what he thought?
SIX
Day Two, Missing 26 Hours
Cork spent the early afternoon on the phone, frustrated and angry, talking to a number of airlines. He was hanging up a final time when the boxy green Honda Element pulled into the drive. Through the window above the kitchen sink, he watched Mal and Rose get out and begin to unload luggage. They worked together easily, touching often. Before she fell in love with Mal, Rose had been a stout woman. As far as Cork knew, she’d also been a virgin, deeply devoted to her Catholic faith. He’d never thought of her as pretty, but she’d always been beautiful in an ethereal, spiritual sort of way. Her marriage had changed that in ways that were both obvious and subtle. She’d lost weight and dressed to show it. There was a beauty in her face now that had an appealing earthy quality to it. It seemed to Cork that in marrying a man who’d worn a collar, she’d lost none of her faith but gained a very different and human kind of wisdom.
Cork went to the side door and greeted them. Rose’s face wore a worried look, and she gave him a prolonged hug. “It’s in God’s hands,” she whispered to him. “It’s always in God’s hands.”
Mal hugged him, too. “What’s the news from out there?”
“The snow’s stopped, but blizzard conditions continue across a lot of the area. Airports are closed. Planes are still grounded. They think the wind’ll let up later this afternoon. Even then it’ll take them a while to clear the runways.”
“Where’s Stevie?” Rose asked.
“In his room.”
“I’m going up to see him.”
Rose headed directly toward the stairs. Mal set the two suitcases in the living room and came back to the kitchen.
As a priest, Mal Thorne had been a tortured man. The competing pull between his duty to the Church and his attachment to the world had nearly torn him apart. He was a decade older than Rose, and when he’d fallen in love with her, he’d seemed wrung out by life, thick in the middle, and often rheumy-eyed from booze. His marriage had changed that. He now looked trim and happy. He was fond of saying that in opening his arms to the earthly love of a woman, he’d found his way back to God, and the happiness had healed him. He was still a man of great spiritual
