The Glacier Gallows Page 3

  When he was done, he stowed the camera and then gently examined the underside of Marriott’s head. He stared at the cracked skull for an unusually long time. Cole watched as if outside himself as Walter picked up his radio, changed the channel, and began to speak. “Glacier Rescue, this is Waterton portable, how do you copy?”

  “This is Glacier Rescue, we read you five by five; loud and clear.”

  “What’s your location?”

  “We’ve just touched down. What’s the situation?”

  “We’ve got a male, identified as the missing party, deceased.”

  “Alright. We’re waiting to hear from your medical examiner if it’s alright to sling out the body. We’ll be down in ten minutes or so.”

  Walter turned his back to Cole and Derek, but the still morning carried his voice. Cole listened as his brother continued. “Glacier Rescue, we’ve got a complication.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We’ll need the ME to confirm this, but I’m pretty sure this man was shot before he fell.”

  FIVE

  OTTAWA, ONTARIO. JANUARY 12.

  “COLE, IT’S BRIAN MARRIOTT CALLING.”

  “Morning, Brian.”

  “Morning. Do you have a minute to talk about something that’s happening down along the Rocky Mountain Front?”

  “Sure. Alberta or Montana?”

  “Both, really. You remember Joe Firstlight?”

  “Of course, but I only met him once, when we got together in Calgary in November.”

  “We talked last week and he told me that the Blackfeet Business Council has gone behind closed doors and voted to green-light the shale gas-fracking plans.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope. Dozens of wells.”

  “Those wells will be within a few miles of Glacier National Park.”

  “That’s right, Cole. But more important from our perspective is what it means for our wind-energy prospects for the region. With the council voting to open the door to the frackers, it closed the door for our association members to get in on the ground floor of wind energy on the reservation.”

  “I don’t get it,” Cole said.

  “I don’t either. Joe tells me that the council has said they only have capacity for one energy project on the res at a time.”

  “That’s a load of … That’s crap, Brian, and you know it. If they can handle eighty wells, they can handle some wind turbines.”

  “You think there’s more at play?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I don’t know, Cole—you’re the conspiracy theorist.” There was momentary silence. “Sorry,” continued Brian. “That was uncalled for.”

  “Just like old times,” Cole said quietly.

  “I’ll have to dig into what’s going on down there and get back to you.”

  “I don’t know how much I can do on this, Brian. My client, Nexus, wants me to help win approval from the feds and the BC government on tidal power. That’s why I’m on the steering committee.”

  “I can understand that. I just thought I’d keep you in the loop on how the other partners are fairing.”

  “Who’s behind the fracking?”

  “A company out of Wyoming called High Country Energy.”

  “Big player?”

  “I’ve been doing a lot of digging. They are emerging.”

  “Follow the money, Brian. You want to find out what’s going on, follow the cash.”

  “I’ve heard you say that before.”

  “Really? When?”

  “Right before you accused me of taking graft on CTV’s Question Period.”

  “Oh yeah, the good old days, when I knew who the enemy was.”

  “Lambs will lay down with lions.”

  “Until the lion gets hungry. Are you hungry, Brian?”

  “This has been helpful, Cole.”

  “Anytime. Let me know if you need me to come out there and knock some heads.”

  “I thought you were all about collaboration now.”

  “I am. But sometimes you need to teach people a lesson.”

  “That sounds like the Cole Blackwater I used to know and hate.”

  “Happy to keep old memories alive.” Cole hung up.

  Brian Marriott looked at his watch. It was after five on a Friday. It was time to call it a week. He peered out the floor-to-ceiling window at the Sparks Street Mall. Snow fell and swirled as the wind twisted it into little funnel clouds. The prospect of waiting for the bus was too much. He’d stop in at D’Arcy McGee’s for a drink with his old cronies and then take a cab home. With both his children away in university and his wife “taking a break,” there was nothing at home to look forward to. He would likely spend his weekend working.

  Brian walked down Sparks Street toward Elgin. D’Arcy McGee’s was where political Ottawa went to unwind. It was named after Thomas D’Arcy McGee, a father of Confederation, and the only victim of a political assassination at the federal level in Canada. Brian hadn’t stepped five feet inside the door when he heard his name being called from a belly-up table near the bar. Half a dozen gray-, blue-, and black-suited men pressed around it, pint glasses near at hand. Rick Turcotte was among them.

  “How goes the wind-farming business?” one of the men wanted to know. It was Gerry Derganc, who had taken over for him when Brian left the Canadian Petroleum Association.

  “It would be better if the government offered a few incentives—say, one percent of what they are giving you to do R&D in the tar sands.” Brian said it with a smile.

  “You really have gone over to the dark side, haven’t you?” Gerry said.

  “I thought you were the dark side,” Brian quipped, looking for a server to bring him a pint. The men at the table laughed.

  “Give Brian a break,” said Rick Turcotte. “He’s still one of us, even if he hangs out with hairy-armpit hippies at folk music festivals now.”

  Brian’s beer came and the group of men talked politics. “Any of you know the company High Country Energy?” Brian asked.

  “I’ve heard of them. Out of Casper or Cheyenne; someplace in Wyoming,” said Gerry.

  “That’s right. I’m doing a little dance with them on one of my projects down in Montana.”

  “This your ‘wind for the Indians’ play?” asked Gerry.

  Brian winced. “The Blackfeet Nation, yes.”

  Another man dug out his Blackberry. “I just read something about them today.” He thumbed the keyboard and then held it for Brian to see. “Here.”

  Brian took a drink of his beer and looked at the tiny screen. It was one of the many oil-patch trade publications, and the section was called “In Motion.” Each month one of the sector’s movers and shakers was profiled, tracking his or her movements around the oil patch. Brian read:

  This month In Motion: former US senator Lester Thompson, now chairman of High Country Energy of Cheyenne, Wyoming (DOW: HCE). The former senator is racking up almost as many frequent-flyer miles as when he was chairman of the Senate Energy and Natural Resources Committee, making stops in China, Hong Kong, Saudi Arabia, Ottawa, and exotic Fort McMurray, Canada, all in one month.

  Brian handed the man’s Blackberry back to him. “The guy gets around. Who did he meet with when he was here?” His question was greeted with shrugs.

  “I never heard of these guys. Maybe he met with the minister. He doesn’t tell me about every meeting,” said Rick.

  Brian was curious. “Do you think you could get me a meeting with your boss? I think it’s time this government took alternative energy more seriously, don’t you?” What he really wanted to ask was what former senator Lester Thompson was doing in China, Ottawa, and Fort McMurray all in the same month.

  SIX

  GLACIER NATIONAL PARK, MONTANA. JULY 10.

  “YOU HAVE GOT TO BE kidding me,” said Cole Blackwater. A second helicopter touched down on the plateau where the team was camped and the front passenger door of the A-Star opened. A woman in jeans and an RCMP j
acket ducked out. Cole stood up. The rest of the hiking party stayed seated on the flat stones of the kitchen area. They’d been drinking coffee and watching the uproar that had engulfed their camp since the discovery of Brian Marriott’s body almost three hours earlier. All turned to follow Cole’s eyes.

  “Someone you know?” asked Derek. He had just returned to the camp. After the rangers from Glacier National Park had arrived, Derek had radioed Blake Foreman’s team of searchers and had then gone to meet them. Mike Hook from the governor’s office and Jessica Winters, the head of the Cool-it! environmental group, had returned on their own. When Derek finally returned, he explained that when Blake heard what had happened, he went to search for signs of someone else having been up on the plateau with them. Derek had searched with Blake for a few minutes and then given him strict instructions to return within the hour.

  “I think so …” Cole said in response to Derek’s question.

  The woman straightened, and three men exited the helicopter. Two of them carried heavy-looking backpacks, and one had a massive hard-side Pelican case in his hands. Cole guessed this was the RCMP forensics team. As the woman strode past the hikers and over to where Waterton Lakes park wardens and Glacier Park rangers were holding conference, she saw Cole. She wore a heavy-equipment belt, complete with a Smith and Wesson sidearm and extra magazines, and an RCMP ball cap. Though her eyes were concealed by aviator sunglasses, Cole felt a moment of recognition pass between them. It appeared as though Sergeant Reimer, formally of the Oracle, Alberta, RCMP, was now part of a Major Crimes Unit stationed in Southern Alberta. During the Mike Barnes affair in Oracle, Alberta, Reimer had raked Cole Blackwater over the coals while he tried to save the Cardinal Divide from a mining company.

  “She looks serious,” said Derek as Cole sat back down. “What do you think they’re doing?”

  “Walter is showing them where the border is. I’d say they were trying to figure out who has jurisdiction here, and how to interrogate us.”

  Reimer indicated a broad area at the edge of the cliff above the spot Brian’s body had been found, and one of the rangers started to cordon the area off as the crime scene, laying yellow tape down and placing heavy boulders on it to keep it from blowing away.

  “I do not like the sound of that,” said Tad, who was sitting next to Derek. He took off his watch cap and scratched his head through a thick mat of dark hair.

  “Gentlemen,” said a ranger from Glacier National Park who was standing nearby, “until we’ve had a chance to interview each of you, you’re not to discuss matters pertaining to this case. We’re going to ask that you put some space between one another.”

  It appeared as if Reimer was taking over. After another minute she gave instructions to each member of the team. Reimer, two members of the forensics team, one ranger, and Walter Blackwater walked to the edge of the cliff, careful to avoid a broad swath of the mountaintop that was considered a crime scene. They peered over the edge and then three of them started down the trail toward the body. The officer with the heavy case remained at the top of the cliff. He took off his pack, put on a pair of latex gloves, and opened his case.

  Derek was about to speak when a US park ranger approached the group, and everybody fell silent. A little like sheep, thought Cole, as a wolf approaches.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m Allan Doyle. I’m the chief ranger and incident commander for Glacier National Park. As I’m sure you’ve all gathered by now, the circumstances that surround Mr. Marriott’s death are suspicious.”

  “Mr. Doyle, I’m Tara Sinclair with the Globe and Mail. Are you prepared to say that Mr. Marriott has been murdered?” Her fingers were poised on her iPhone.

  “We have opened an investigation. That does not preclude the possibility of foul play. But until the Mounties do their work, and until the medical examiner arrives on scene, we won’t know for certain the cause of death. That could take several days.”

  Sinclair hadn’t stopped scribbling in her notebook and posting updates from her iPhone since the debacle had begun. She was a science reporter, but she was a reporter first and foremost. “Does this mean that you’re ceding jurisdiction?”

  “This is a joint investigation. The RCMP has the closest Major Crimes Unit, so they will lead the forensic investigation. The criminal medical examiner is being flown in from Calgary.”

  “But we’re on American soil,” said Mike Hook.

  “Right here we are, but over there”—the chief ranger pointed at the cliff where the RCMP technician was starting to determine the path of contamination for the crime scene—“is Canada. Listen, this is a difficult situation for all of you, and it’s difficult for us too. We’ll get to the bottom of this. We’ll need your cooperation to do it. If there was a crime committed, there will be plenty of time to squabble about which country it was in later on. We’re going to need to talk with you each individually, and between now and then I’ll remind you not speak with each other about this event.”

  Several voices called out questions. Doyle held up his hands. “For the time being, those of you in the fourth estate will refrain from fueling speculation.” Doyle was looking at Tara Sinclair. “I can’t take away your iPhone—much as I’d like to—but I’ll demand that you respect the fact that next of kin has not been notified. If I need to have a judge swear out a publication ban on all the details of this case, I will. Are we understood?” Tara Sinclair bobbed her head.

  “Now,” the chief ranger continued, “I understand that we have some political people here.” Two hands went up. “You are?”

  “I’m Mike Hook. I’m the senior Natural Resources policy advisor to the governor.”

  “I’m Rick Turcotte.” Rick was standing behind the group. Cole turned and noticed him for the first time in a while. “I’m parliamentary secretary to Canada’s Minister of Natural Resources. It’s like an undersecretary in your—”

  “Alright, I would expect that the two of you have been in contact with your bosses.” Both said they had. “We’d like it if this stayed out of the political arena while we conduct our investigation. I will act as liaison with the feds, state and provinces on both sides of the border. Are we understood?” The group nodded in unison.

  Doyle continued, “Please do not return to your tents. Sit tight while the investigators complete their initial crime-scene work. Understood?”

  “Mr. Doyle?” Tara Sinclair said.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, one of our party isn’t here. I mean, besides Mr. Marriott.” Everybody looked around, counting heads.

  “And who is that?” asked the ranger.

  Tara looked at Derek for help. “The guide, Blake Foreman. He hasn’t come back yet. We went out to look for Brian, but Blake hasn’t come back yet.”

  The ranger looked at Derek. “Derek, where’s your boy?”

  Derek stood. “I don’t know.”

  “BLAKE FOREMAN. HE’S thirty-two, wears a neatly trimmed beard, had a wool cap on. He has a big orange pack.” Derek was talking with the chief ranger and one of the Canadian park wardens. Cole was standing nearby, listening. “He went west this morning in search of Mr. Marriott. Jessica and Mike were with him. We were in contact by radio. I told him Brian’s body had been found. I went out and met up with his party. Foreman insisted on searching for any sign that someone else had been up here last night. He said he’d follow us back. I searched with him for a few minutes and then caught up with Mike and Jessica.”

  “You have to leave the investigation to us,” Doyle said sternly.

  “I know that now.” Derek sounded sheepish. “Blake was angry. He insisted.”

  “How did you know that Brian had been murdered? What made you think someone else was up here?”

  “We were standing right next to Walter when he called it in over the radio,” admitted Cole.

  Doyle radioed down to his special investigator, who was working with Walter Blackwater and Inspector Reimer at the base of the cliff. Cole heard Doyle say that t
he team was going to divert the RCMP A-Star helicopter to do a sweep over the mountains to the west of the camp to see if they could locate Foreman.

  “It’s been more than an hour since Mr. McGrath left Foreman on his own,” said Doyle. “He could be three or four miles from here by now. If you don’t get him on the first pass, I’m getting another team up here.” A few minutes later the A-Star buzzed the camp, heading west.

  “Derek,” said Doyle, standing before him and Cole and Tad, “I don’t recognize this fellow Blake’s name. Is he new on your payroll this summer?”

  “He’s new this trip, Allan. We were down a man for this outing and he was hanging around, looking for guiding work in East Glacier. He has his ticket from the American Mountain Guide Association and seemed like a pretty congenial type, so we picked him up.”

  Cole interrupted. “What happened to your regular guide?”

  “Nothing that we know of.” Derek sounded defensive. “He emailed me two days before the trip to explain that he was sick as a dog.”

  “Did you talk to him?” asked Cole.

  “No. I just got the email from him.”

  “When you spoke with Foreman an hour ago, what did he say?” continued Doyle.

  “I told him what had happened. He asked that I take Jessica and Mike back here, and he said he was going to have a look around. Just that. He seemed pissed off about Brian. He said he would be close on our heels.”

  Doyle said, “Alright, listen, we need to find this guy, and then we need to talk with every single one of you. Derek, I suggest that you and your colleague here get some lunch started for this crew. If you’ve got any to spare, I think the interviews will go a lot better if we feed everyone.”

  “HEY RICK.” COLE was sitting close to Rick Turcotte as they pushed food around in their bowls. Cole saw that the ranger watching them was absorbed in another conversation. “You alright? You look pale.”