The Glacier Gallows Page 13

  “That would be helpful,” said Walter, a sinking feeling developing in the pit of his stomach.

  THEY DROVE ACROSS the western portion of the Blackfeet Reservation to Heart Butte. The afternoon sun burned the parched earth all around them. Where the foothills rose up from the plains, the earth softened, and cottonwoods lined the trickle of water in Badger Creek.

  Walter consulted the map Derek McGrath had drawn and pointed to a rise just ahead. “There should be a turnoff just over the hill. Take a right and it’s another mile.”

  “I don’t think that road goes another mile.” Perry indicated the steep incline of the peaks that bordered the Badger-Two Medicine region of the Lewis and Clark National Forest.

  “It does.”

  They drove for another five minutes, made the turn, and followed the road as it dipped down toward the creek. “There.” Walter pointed through the dusty windshield.

  They pulled up in front of a neat and sturdy-looking single-storey house. There was a small barn and several outbuildings. A pickup truck was parked next to the house.

  “You just going to walk up?” asked Perry. “Don’t you think he’ll have a gun or something?”

  Walter just shook his head and went to the front door. A dog could be heard barking inside the house, and shortly a man appeared. He was ancient-looking, bent and twisted. Walter introduced himself.

  “I’m Don Parkinson,” said the man, shaking Walter’s hand.

  “Mr. Parkinson, we’re looking for Chip Prescott.”

  “I don’t think he’s around. I haven’t seen him for some time. He mostly keeps to himself.”

  “Did he leave town?”

  “I think he must have. He might have gone for a hike up the Badger.”

  “We heard he went back to Colorado.”

  “Maybe.”

  “But he’s still living here?”

  “I think. I got an envelope of cash for the rent at the end of July. He must’ve dropped it by when I was in town or some such thing.”

  Walter made a mental note to ask the FBI about this. He glanced back at Perry in the car. “Sir, do you mind if my friend and I drive up your road to his trailer?” Parkinson said he didn’t, and Walter returned to the car.

  They continued down the gravel road, Perry at the wheel. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “Me too.”

  They followed the rutted track for half a mile, the undercarriage of the Lexus dragging on the high center from time to time.

  “Wish you had let me take the truck now?” asked Walter. He pointed. “There it is. Down by the trees, along the creek.”

  The mobile home had likely been a portable construction trailer at one point. Its roof was covered in a thick mat of pine needles, and the once-white walls were gray with dust. It had a pleasant yard set close to the creek, with a picnic table and a folding camp chair next to a fire pit. They stopped the car fifty feet from the front door and got out.

  The sound of the creek as it rushed over stones and fallen timber was all they could hear. Threads of light cut through the Engelmann spruce and subalpine fir. Walter drew a deep breath and then made a face.

  “What is it?”

  “Something smells awful.”

  “I thought that was just nature.”

  “You don’t get out of the city much, do you?”

  “Not much.” They walked to the trailer.

  “Hello?” called Walter.

  There was nothing. Walter drew another deep breath and put his hand over his mouth. The odor was rank. He knocked on the door and waited. Nobody answered. The place had the feeling of an abandoned building. Walter put his hand on the doorknob and twisted.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Something isn’t right.” Walter pushed the door open. It was unlocked.

  “You can’t go in there.”

  “I have reason to believe that a crime has been committed.”

  “You’re not a cop. Not anymore.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Walter pushed the door open. He felt for a switch, found one, and turned on the dim lights. The interior was sparsely furnished but neat. Walter sniffed, but the air in the trailer, while musty, was less fetid than outside. They walked into the cramped space and looked into the bedroom. A single bed had a sleeping bag on top of it. A heavy backpack sat next to the bed. Several milk crates filled with climbing gear and backpacking equipment were under the window. The blinds were drawn. Walter looked under the bed. Nothing. He tripped over a pair of hiking boots as he went to the closet.

  “Wherever Chip Prescott went, it wasn’t for a hike. There’s nothing here,” said Walter. “Let’s go. This place is giving me the willies.” They stepped back outside.

  “It smells worse out here than in there.” Perry put a hand to his nose.

  “Yeah …” Walter walked toward the back of the trailer. There was a thick stand of cottonwoods and willows along the bank of the creek.

  “Where are you going now?” said Perry, a few feet behind Walter.

  “Following my nose.”

  “Jesus …” said Perry. They rounded the corner of the trailer. At the edge of the trees there was a sudden movement. Something huge was erupting from the woods just thirty feet from them.

  “Holy shit!” shouted Perry.

  “Run!” called Walter. He turned as the grizzly bear broke from the woods and barreled toward them. Walter nearly knocked Perry over. Perry tripped and almost fell but stayed on his feet, Walter grabbing him and pulling him around the trailer. Perry made for the car and Walter veered toward the trailer. The bear came around the corner at a hard run, jaws popping, breathing hard.

  Walter made it through the door of the trailer and looked to see Perry opening his car door, the bear just a few feet behind him. Perry dove into the driver’s seat, grabbed the door handle, and pulled it shut just as the bear collided with the Lexus. The whole vehicle rocked as the grizzly’s massive head hit the side panel.

  The bear looked briefly at Walter, who watched through the small window in the trailer door. Then it turned its attention back to Perry. Perry laid on the horn, and the bear drove its head back into the car, creating a massive dent in the Lexus’s door. Walter shouted as loud as he could, “Stop the horn!” and either Perry heard or picked up on the other signs that honking was a bad idea. The bear reared and rammed the car again, rocking it on its springs. Walter could hear Perry shouting, “Go away! Go away!”

  Walter went quickly into Chip’s bedroom and rummaged through his gear. He found what he needed and went back to the front door. Through its window he saw the bear pacing around the car. He must be five hundred pounds, thought Walter. This was a very healthy, very upset male grizzly.

  Walter thumbed the safety off the bear spray he had found and then unwrapped what looked like a shotgun shell. He held the spray in one hand and the bear banger—a noisemaker used to frighten away bears—in the other. He slowly opened the door. The grizzly was still pacing, his head swinging from side to side, saliva foaming at the corners of its mouth. Walter pulled the release on the bear banger, and it shot toward the animal and exploded. The sound was louder than a shotgun blast. The bear reared up and charged toward Walter. Walter, standing in the doorway of the trailer, aimed the pepper spray and, when the bear was twenty feet away, pulled the trigger. A thick cone of capsicum erupted from the canister and engulfed the grizzly. The bear stopped as if it had been shot. It hit the ground momentarily and then ran in the opposite direction at a full gallop. Walter marveled as he watched it splash across the creek and crash through the woods, trees six inches wide being snapped like matchsticks.

  Perry, who had been lying on the front seat, raised his head. Walter, still holding the pepper spray in front of him, stepped toward the car. He tried the driver’s door, but it had been so badly damaged that it wouldn’t open. He went around the car and opened the passenger door.

  “Holy fuck!” yelled Perry.

  “You okay?”


  “Yeah, but we were this fucking close to being dinner.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What are you talking about, Ranger Rick? That bear almost ate us.”

  Walter could see that Perry was still pumped on adrenalin. “I think he was pretty pissed, but eating us wasn’t on his mind. More like keeping us from getting at his supper.” Perry was still in the car. “Come on,” said Walter. “I’ll show you.”

  “Fuck that. I’m staying here.”

  “The bear is gone. He’s half a mile away right now. But he’ll be back. We’ve got a minute. I want to show you something.”

  Perry got out, nervously looking around. The woods were quiet again. They walked around the car. “Holy shit, look what that bastard did to my car!”

  “Lucky it wasn’t you.”

  Perry looked over at the woods as they went around the trailer. The stench hit them like a fist. Perry suddenly looked pale. “What is that smell?”

  Walter walked over to where he had seen the bear. There was a pile of dirt on the ground where something had excavated earth and rocks. Perry looked like he was going to be sick. Walter stepped around the pile of dirt and felt his knees go weak. There on the ground, next to the excavation, were the partially consumed remains of a man.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  OTTAWA, ONTARIO. JUNE 28.

  “YOU SURE YOU WANT ME to come on your little field trip, Brian?” Rick Turcotte stood at the bar in D’Arcy McGee’s.

  “I need you to see what’s happening on the ground, Rick. If I can’t convince you that this is real, and that we have to invest in genuine alternatives to the tar sands, then I don’t know how I’m going to convince the minister or the PM.”

  “You’re not going to, Brian.”

  “Think of it as an opportunity to spend some time with an old friend.”

  “Feels like you’ve left your old friends behind for the cause.”

  Brian drank from his pint glass. “What I don’t understand is why everybody in the oil and gas sector is so resistant to the notion of investing in renewable energy. What are we afraid of?”

  Rick put his beer down. He straightened up. “I don’t think they are afraid of anything, Brian. But this is what’s driving our relationship with the world right now. This is what’s driving foreign policy.” Rick tapped his finger on the bar to accentuate his point. “And getting between a country and its foreign policy is a very dangerous game to play, Brian.”

  “You’re talking about foreign investment, not foreign policy.”

  “It’s the same thing.”

  “No, it isn’t, Rick. At least, it never used to be. But somehow your government has confused the two.”

  “Investment in the tar sands is our foreign policy now, Brian. It’s time to wake up and rejoin the real world.”

  “So you’ll come on the hike?”

  “I’m going because someone has to keep you from fucking things up royally. You don’t have any idea how dangerous a game you’re playing right now.”

  “HI, JOE, IT’S Brian. Are we all set?”

  “Yes, we are. I’ve got East Glacier Guiding all lined up. Rooms for the night before are booked at Glacier Park Lodge. Transportation is arranged. I think we’re good to go.”

  “Everything else okay? You sound a little on edge.”

  “It’s hard to be the only Indian on the reservation who is standing up to these guys.”

  “Has someone threatened you?” Brian recalled the growing list of emails he had received threatening his life.

  “It’s implied that I might consider being a good Indian and shutting up. There are a few others on my side, but everybody is scared of speaking out. My people have a cultural aversion to asking questions. And there is a lot of money on the line. People here are poor as dirt. The Tribal Council has warned me that people in these parts don’t like people like you—”

  “An environmentalist?”

  “That’s right. The council doesn’t like people like you telling them how to run their government.”

  “Is that what the Tribal Council says or what HCE is telling the Tribal Council to say?”

  “It’s what all the money being thrown around here says.”

  “If you receive any threats, Joe, take them to the tribal police.”

  Joe laughed. “Like they will do anything about it. No, I’ll be okay. I’ll see you in a week. We’ll go into the mountains, talk about the weather, show people what is happening to our headwaters, and pray for sanity.”

  “I DON’T WANT to do this, Charles.” Brian stood next to the Centennial Flame, the Parliament Buildings rising behind him. Charles Wendell had his arms crossed.

  “Then don’t. I’m just the messenger, Brian.”

  “Are you? Are you really? You know, I’ve talked with some of your so-called friends, Charles. Environmental Defence, Sierra Club, Greenpeace. According to them, you’re on your own on this little crusade. They may not all agree with me on how we should treat the tar sands, but they all agree that a range of options is needed. It’s the only way we’re going to get this government to listen. You’re not speaking for any coalition, and frankly, I think it’s time that someone put the truth to your lie.

  “That’s right, Charles. The cat’s out of the bag. Now here’s what I’m going to do. In a week, I’m taking some folks out to see what’s really happening on the ground with climate change. When I get back, if you’re still on your one-man mission to destroy the work I’m trying to do by lying about who you represent and what you want, I’m going to expose you to the world as the fraud you are. You’ve got two weeks to clean up your act. I don’t care if you have a different opinion than me, Charles. But I won’t stand any more lies. You got that?”

  “Who the fuck—?”

  “Who the fuck do I think I am? I’m just a guy who has come to the conclusion that the only way we’re going to keep the world from burning up is by using the money and the resources that the oil and gas sector has to create an entirely new energy economy. It’s not as sexy as protesting outside the Chinese Embassy and demanding that the tar sands shut down tomorrow. But it’s the real fucking world, Charles. You’re a smart guy, with a lot of passion, but you’re living in a dream world if you think we can shut the tar sands down overnight. So when I get back, why don’t we sit down and figure out how you can use your energy to create real change rather than just grabbing headlines? What do you say?”

  Charles Wendell was fuming. “I say fuck you, Brian. You’re an industry patsy who has infiltrated the environmental movement and is destroying it. I’m going to stop you.”

  Brian smiled and shook his head. “See you in a couple of weeks, Charles.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  PORCUPINE HILLS, ALBERTA. AUGUST 2.

  “IS PERRY ALRIGHT?” COLE SAT on the porch of the Blackwater Ranch, using an ancient cordless phone.

  “He’s fine.” Walter laughed. “A little strung out, but fine. You should see his car.”

  “Whose body is it?”

  “No ID yet. We’ve got a real party going on out here: FBI, BIA, Blackfeet tribal cops, even Glacier County sheriffs. The medical examiner is using an ice-cream scoop to put the body in a bag. Montana State Fish and Game is hunting down the bear.”

  “But nobody thinks this bear killed whoever it was you found.”

  “No way. The FBI is going to work with the ME on the postmortem, but I’ll bet they find a bullet hole in what’s left of this guy’s skull. If not that, then something else. The body was buried under a few feet of earth and rocks in the backyard. The bear sniffed it out, dug it up, and was feeding on it.”

  “You think this is the missing guide, Chip Prescott?”

  “I think so. Who else? It was his place. Unless Chip killed someone, buried him, and disappeared himself. Perry is pushing the feds down here to drop the extradition request immediately, but they say this changes nothing.”

  “Are you o
n your way home?”

  “Soon. Perry wants to spend some time on this. We might be home tonight, maybe tomorrow.”

  “Be careful, Walt.”

  “You too. Kiss Mom for me.”

  Cole hung up the phone. The screen door opened and Nancy came out onto the porch and sat down. Cole filled her in on the conversation.

  “So we’ve got four bodies: Brian Marriott, the two guides, and Charlie Crowfoot.”

  “I’m not convinced that Blake Foreman was a guide at all. It’s just too damn convenient. I think Foreman was our guy.”

  “I’ll make a few calls and see what I can come up with about him this morning. In the meantime, you’re going to want to see this,” said Nancy, opening her laptop. “Remember when we were looking at Brian’s email? I put some feelers out with a few friends in Ottawa.”

  “You still have friends in Ottawa?”

  Nancy smiled thinly. “No thanks to you, but yes, a few. Do you remember Nicolas Stanos?”

  “The freedom-of-information guy?”

  “Yeah. I used him a bunch of times when I was with the Globe and Mail to do research. He’s got this formula for freedom-of-information requests that he’s figured out. He can get just about anything short of the prime minister’s personal diary. I asked him to do some broadcast fishing on this file. I hoped to come up with a motive for why Brian was killed. I got this instead.” She pointed to an email from Stanos dated earlier that morning.

  Nancy. I’ve put in a number of FOIPP requests regarding your friend Cole and his colleague Brian Marriott. I won’t hear anything for at least another few weeks. One thing I did find on the public record, however, was on the federal Attorney General’s website. I got a blind hit when using one of my custom data search engines. It looks like the federal Cabinet has waived its opposition to extradition for Mr. Blackwater. This is unusual given that Montana still has the death penalty on its books, even though it’s only executed three people since 1976. Normally, Canada wouldn’t waive extradition unless Montana agreed not to ask for the death penalty. The Supreme Court has said that Canada must seek an exemption to the death penalty in all but “exceptional” cases. But I don’t see that as part of the deal. It could be there, but it’s not specified. I guess they think this case is exceptional. I’ve added Cabinet records of this discussion to my FOIPP request, but I’m not going to hold my breath. These are usually proprietary. My point is, your friend Cole has been given up by our federal government.