Heaven's Keep (5 page)

Mal was Cork’s brother-in-law. He’d once been a Catholic priest serving the parishioners of St. Agnes in Aurora. Then he’d fallen in love with Rose. Now they were married—five years—and living in Evanston, Illinois.

Rose came on the line again. “Do the kids know?”

“I called Jenny and Anne. They both wanted to come home right away, but I convinced them to stay put until I know more.”

“How’s Stephen doing?”

“Taking it hard. He’s up in his room right now.”

“And you?”

“Not good either. I would have waited to call until I knew more, but with this kind of situation it won’t be long before the media picks up on it. I wanted to make sure you both heard it from me.”

“We’re coming up there, Cork.” Rose, always a strong woman, had already put away her despair and girded herself for action.

“Rose, there’s no reason—”

“You’ll have your hands full. We’ll leave first thing in the morning. End of story.”

For many years before she married Mal, Rose had lived with the O’Connors. She was part of the family. Cork could have resisted more, but the truth was that he liked the idea of her being there. He also understood that worry was multiplied by distance and silence, and coming to Aurora would put her closer to the situation, to any news that came.

“Thanks, Rose.”

“If you hear anything, you’ll let us know.”

“Of course.”

“We’ll see you tomorrow, Cork. In the meantime, we all have a lot of praying to do.”

Cork had the television on, tuned to The Weather Channel. The storm in the upper Rockies was one of the stories they were tracking. On radar, the area of snow was a huge white blob gobbling up most of western Wyoming, as well as large parts of Montana, Idaho, and northwestern Colorado. He went to the bookcase in the corner of the living room, pulled out an atlas, opened to the map of Wyoming, and
located Owl Creek County and the Washakie Wilderness. He’d been through Wyoming a couple of times, but always far to the south, on I-80. He’d never been to Yellowstone, never been anywhere near the Washakie Wilderness. He tried to imagine it, and what he visualized were the mountains in the cowboy movies of his youth—distant, blue, beautiful, formidable.

The phone rang. Caller ID told him it was the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department. It was Dross. “I’m back in the office,” she told him. “I just wanted you to know I’m here all night and in constant contact with the sheriff’s department in Owl Creek County.”

“Mind giving me the number of the people out there you’re talking with?”

“I’m sure they’re busy and doing everything they can.”

“I’m sure,” Cork said. “I’d still like the number.”

She gave it to him, though he could tell it was with reservation.

“I’m watching The Weather Channel,” he said. “Doesn’t look good.”

“Local conditions vary a lot, you know that.”

“Right. Thanks, Marsha.”

He called the number she’d given him.

“Sheriff’s office.” A tired male voice.

“My name’s Cork O’Connor. My wife, Jo O’Connor, was one of the passengers on the flight that’s missing there in the Rockies. I’d like to talk to someone about what you folks are doing.”

“Just a moment.”

The moment turned into two minutes. Cork assumed a couple of possibilities. First, that the department was overwhelmed. Second, that they were taking time to verify his identity via caller ID and whatever information the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department had given them.

“Mr. O’Connor, this is Deputy Quinn.” Sounded like he had a cold, something rattling in his chest.

“I’m wondering, Deputy, if you could give me a rundown on where things stand.”

“All right. The FAA is still trying to contact all the possible landing
fields. That’s not easy because there are a lot of private airstrips, some pretty remote, and the storm’s brought down a lot of power and telephone lines. It’s snowing like blazes and it’s dark as pitch.” The deputy coughed away from the phone, then came back. “If a search becomes necessary, we’ve already got a number of Civil Air Patrol volunteers standing by. And our own search and rescue people are geared up and ready. They’re good. They’ve done this kind of thing before. As soon as we get a break in the weather, if necessary we’ll be out there looking. Believe me, Mr. O’Connor, we’re doing everything we can.”

“Are you familiar with the area where the plane disappeared from radar?”

“We know where it dropped off the radar, but we don’t know that it actually went down in that particular area. The folks at the FAA are doing their best to advise us.”

“I was told it’s called the Washakie Wilderness. Could you tell me about it?”

“As I said, we have no reason at the moment to believe that the plane went down there.”

“Tell me anyway.”

A too long pause. “It’s remote, rugged. Mostly big mountains and no roads.”

“What’s the local weather forecast?”

“Just a moment.” The deputy covered the phone, but not well enough that Cork couldn’t hear him hacking something up. He came back on. “They’re saying the snow could last another twelve to eighteen hours. We’re looking at total accumulations in the high country of four, maybe five feet. Mr. O’Connor, Sheriff Dross has told us about your law enforcement background, so I’m guessing you know to a certain extent our situation. Believe me, we’re doing everything we can, and we’ll keep you well informed.”

Which translated into “please don’t call us.”

“I appreciate your time, Deputy Quinn.”

“No problem, Mr. O’Connor.”

He was no place different from where he’d been ten minutes before. Absolutely lost.

Stephen wandered down the stairs and slumped onto the other end of the sofa. He looked at the television screen, which was delivering the “Local on the 8s.” In northern Minnesota tomorrow, the prediction was for another beautiful day. A minute later, the coverage returned to the storm in the Wyoming Rockies.

“Is she dead?” Stephen said.

“Why would you think that, Stephen? There’s every reason to hope that she and the others are safe.”

“I don’t care about the others. I just want Mom to be okay.” He stared at The Weather Channel, the shifting of white against green that was the digital image of the snowstorm, a simple representation of a crushing fear. “I wish I could be looking for her.”

“She’ll probably turn up by morning and she’ll have a hell of a story to tell, buddy. And remember, there are good people out there who know what they’re doing.”

“They don’t care like I do.”

“Sometimes, Stevie, in really tight situations it’s best to have someone who’s not emotionally involved. They think clearer.”

“My name’s Stephen and that’s bullshit. If I was out there, I’d be looking for her right now.”

“Sorry about the name. And I’m sure you would,” he said gently.

Stephen fell asleep on the sofa. Cork covered him with an afghan Rose had knitted for Christmas one year. He settled into the easy chair with the phone at hand and closed his eyes. He couldn’t sleep. He kept going over the possibilities, searching for some reasonable alternative, something to hold on to, but his thinking kept coming back to the darkest prospect—a plane in pieces in the mountains, slowly being buried by snow.

He picked up the phone and listened again to the message Jo had left.

“Cork, it’s me.” During the long silence that followed, he heard the wind in the background like the whisper of a ghost. He saw her outside somewhere. He didn’t know Casper, Wyoming, didn’t know the geography, and he imagined her in a vast nowhere standing against a sky that was gunmetal gray, her blue eyes searching the
empty horizon, the wind pulling at her hair. “I’ll call you later,” she finished.

But she hadn’t. And despite all the hope he was trying to give his family, in his own mind he fought not to hear the bleak, bitter voice of his terrible fear telling him she never would.

T
he phone woke him. He’d been dozing all night in the easy chair in the living room.

“Yeah, hello.”

“Cork, it’s Marsha.”

He sat up and squeezed his eyes to force the sleep out. “What’s up? Any word?”

“They contacted every airstrip they know of, public and private, and they’ve come up empty. There are still a few that haven’t responded, but they’re beginning to focus on the probability of search and rescue. It’s still snowing heavily out there, but the sheriff’s people expect it to begin tapering off before noon. They’ve also had a report from a couple of snowmobilers who say they heard a low-flying plane sputtering overhead around the time the charter dropped off the radar yesterday, which puts it, apparently, in the east-central section of the Washakie Wilderness.”

“It was still flying?”

“If it was the charter, yes. They couldn’t see anything. The snow and cloud cover was heavy, but they’re pretty sure the plane was heading southeast.”

Still flying,
Cork thought and grabbed hold of hope.

“How’re you doing?” Dross asked.

“Hanging in there.”

“When I hear anything more—”

“I know. I’ll be here.”

The phone hadn’t woken Stephen, and Cork let him sleep. He pushed himself out of the chair and went to the kitchen to make coffee. Outside, the sky was clear and the approach of dawn had softened the hard black of night. His muscles were tense, sore as if he’d taken a beating. He watched the coffee slowly fill the pot, then he poured a cup, sat down at the kitchen table, stared at the wall clock, and thought about the fact that she’d been missing nearly twenty-four hours. He’d been involved in enough winter search and rescue operations in the Minnesota wilderness to know that unless the plane was intact or its passengers had at least some protection from the cold and wind, their odds, by the hour, would plummet. He realized his hand was shaking uncontrollably and he put his coffee cup down.

The phone rang.

“Mr. O’Connor, this is Julie Newell. I’m a reporter for the St. Paul
Pioneer Press.
I know this is a difficult time for you, but we’ve been notified that your wife’s name is on the passenger manifest of the plane that’s gone down in the Wyoming Rockies.”

“There’s no confirmation that it’s actually gone down,” Cork said.

“Of course. I’m wondering if I could talk to you a few minutes in order to let our readers know who your wife is and how you’re responding to this situation.”

“I’m responding badly,” Cork said.

“I understand. I’m also wondering what your reaction is to the allegation that the pilot was drinking the night before.”

“What?”

“You didn’t know? I’m sorry.”

“Tell me.”

“There’s strong evidence indicating that the pilot, Clinton Bodine”—she pronounced the name “Bo-dyne”—“was in a bar the night before, drinking heavily.”

“Evidence?”

“As soon as news of the plane’s disappearance became public, a bartender in Casper came forward. So did a cabdriver. I’m surprised no one’s told you this.”

“Jesus,” Cork said. “I don’t know anything about it.”

“Does this upset you?”

“What do you think?”

“The pilot was an Indian, Mr. O’Connor. You’re part Indian, too, as I understand.”

“The word is Ojibwe.”

“Of course. How do you feel knowing that an Indian—Ojibwe—pilot, who allegedly had been drinking, might be responsible for your wife’s disappearance?”

“Mostly I feel like ending this conversation.” And he did.

He called Dross.

“I hadn’t heard, Cork,” she told him. “You know how it goes. Sometimes the media is ahead of us. I’ll see what I can find out.”

Cork didn’t know much about the pilot. He’d had only a glimpse when Jo got on the plane at the Tamarack County Regional Airport. He knew he was Anishinaabe—Ojibwe—from a Wisconsin band, he thought. A drunken Indian? Christ, that was going to feed the stereotype.

Stephen stumbled into the kitchen looking beat. He poured himself some orange juice and sat silently at the table, while Cork flipped pancakes and fried a couple of eggs for each of them. He wasn’t hungry, but he knew they had to eat, and Stephen, when the food was set before him, ate voraciously. These days he always did.

“I heard the phone ring,” Stephen said.

“There’s been some hopeful news.” Cork told him about the two snowmobilers. “I don’t know what it means exactly, but it looks like the plane was headed southeast, maybe back toward Casper, where it had come from.”

Stephen had stopped eating. His eyes were big and hopeful. “Maybe they’ve made it back.”

“If they had I think we’d have heard by now. But it gives the sheriff’s people a better idea of where the plane might be.”

“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.