Stephen’s face brightened. “Mom?”
“No. They’ve spotted the door to a plane.”
EIGHT
Day Three, Missing 49 Hours
Deputy Quinn was calling him Cork now.
“That’s right, Cork,” he said. His cold wasn’t so much in evidence anymore. “One of our planes spotted debris in a high mountain canyon in the Washakie Wilderness. It’s in an area that’s part of a formation known as Heaven’s Keep.”
“Debris?” Cork said.
“What they could clearly see appeared to be the door of a plane. It’s resting on a broad ledge that’s free of snow because of the high winds. Which also means that it’s going to be difficult to get to.”
“Any sign of the passengers?”
“Not at the moment.”
“How are you proceeding?”
“We have a chopper already in the air on its way to the location. If the pilot can find a reasonable place to land, he’ll attempt it. We have EMTs onboard. We also have a ground team prepared to head in, but that will take much longer, of course.”
“When will you know if the chopper’s able to land?”
“Probably within the hour. I’ll keep you posted. That’s a solid-gold promise. And will you pass the information along to Ms. LeDuc?”
“I’ll call her right now.”
When he hung up, Cork told the others what he’d learned, which was no more than they already knew. He called Sarah LeDuc and explained.
“Only a door?” she said.
“It’s a start, Sarah. At least we have a location. As soon as I hear anything more, I’ll let you know. Stay near your phone.”
When he hung up, Rose said, “I can’t just sit and wait. I’m going to make some lunch. Anyone want to give a hand?”
Annie took her up on it, and the two of them headed to the kitchen. The others stayed in the living room. The television was tuned to CNN, but the sound was off. Cork stared at the screen, where the standoff in Kansas was center stage. Footage shot across the plains showed desolate hills, yellow-brown beneath a blue sky that, despite its swimming pool color, looked as empty and desolate as the land. There was nothing rising across the whole of the horizon except the dark, distant buildings of the compound where Hargrove and his followers were encamped. They’d chosen the place in order to be lost to the world, Cork figured, but they’d screwed themselves royally. Best laid plans.
Looking at all the emptiness made Cork realize how closed-in the house felt, how constraining. What he really wanted was to be in Wyoming, looking for Jo. He wanted to be on the helicopter that was at that moment speeding to… what? Her rescue? Only a door. That’s all they saw. Only a door. And what did that mean?
“A door,” Stephen said, as if he’d read his father’s thoughts.
By now, everyone knew about Stephen’s dream, which Meloux, like Stephen, believed was a vision.
“Maybe it’s the door,” he said.
Jenny said, “Don’t get your hopes up.”
Stephen gave his sister a challenging look. “Why not?”
“I’m just saying we don’t really know anything yet.” She was less than gentle in her reply.
What she meant, Cork thought, was that the door was wreckage. And wreckage wasn’t good. Maybe she was trying to help Stephen see things more realistically, but her own nerves were frayed, and it came out as an accusation. They all were feeling the strain. He could see it in the pinch of their faces, hear it in the taut cadence when they spoke, feel it in the despair that hung in the house like fouled air.
He said, “Stephen, let’s do some surfing on the Internet.”
“Looking for what?”
“For hope,” Cork said. “Come on.”
They went upstairs to Stephen’s room and for half an hour looked on the Net for stories of miraculous survival in frigid conditions. What they came up with was a half dozen tales of men and women whose luck and courage had brought them out of impossible situations: a party that had survived the ill-fated Scott polar expedition; the crash of a Canadian military transport in the Arctic; a man who’d survived a plane wreck in the High Sierra and hiked through wilderness for two weeks to reach safety despite a dozen broken bones.
Stephen’s spirits seemed to rise with each miraculous tale, and he began pulling them off the computer and printing them to share with the others.
Downstairs, the doorbell rang. A moment later Mal called up, “Someone to see you, Cork.”
To his profound surprise, Cork found Hugh Parmer standing in the shade of his porch.
“This isn’t a good time,” Cork said curtly.
“I’m sorry to intrude, O’Connor, but I have something to say to you that I thought you’d want to hear. It’s important or I wouldn’t bother you at a time like this.”
Cork stepped outside. The morning was sunny and the temperature had climbed to forty degrees. Even in the shade of the porch, Parmer squinted, and Cork realized it was the natural state of the man’s face. The face of a cowboy masking the mind of a real estate tyrant.
“Look, O’Connor, I know about your trouble, and I’m here to tell you that I’m putting the Iron Lake development on hold indefinitely. I’m not going to kick a man while he’s down.”
“You’re dropping your plans for the lakeshore?”
“Let’s take it one step at a time. Right now, I’m pulling back. I don’t want you to have to worry about anything except your family. Later on, you and me can sit down, and I’m willing to bet we can hammer out something that works for both of us. But don’t you even think about that right now. This is no bullshit.”
He put out his hand, and after a moment’s consideration, Cork accepted it. Parmer’s palm was callused. Cork realized this wasn’t a man who spent his time sitting in a plush office.
“There’s nothing more important than family, O’Connor. You see to yours.”
“The name’s Cork.”
“Call me Hugh. And listen, you need anything in all this, just let me know. Here.” He pulled a card from an inside pocket of the jacket he wore and handed it to Cork. “That’s my cell phone number. My Lear’s parked down at the Duluth airport and I’m flying back to Texas tomorrow morning, but I can be reached anytime.”
Cork said, “I misjudged you, Hugh.”
“Not the first time that’s happened. I’m a good businessman, Cork, but I’m a whole hell of a lot more.”
“Look, we’re about to have some lunch inside. You’re welcome to join us.”
“Thanks, but I didn’t come here to intrude.”
“You came with a good heart, Hugh. That’s never an intrusion.”
“I appreciate the offer, but all the same I’ll be leaving now.” He nodded toward the card. “I mean it. Call me anytime.”
He walked down the steps and went to his car, a rented Navigator that was parked at the curb. He gave a wave as he drove off.
Cork’s situation was so confusing that he understood he couldn’t necessarily trust his judgment of Parmer. The man could have been setting him up in order to call in the note later, when they dealt with Sam’s Place. That didn’t matter. At the moment, Cork would have sold his soul to have Jo home safely. He eyed the card in his hand. A small white rectangle. He rotated it so that the long sides were vertical. It looked like a door.
“Dad,” Annie called from inside. “Lunch is ready.”
The phone call came a few minutes past noon, while Stephen was sharing with the others what he’d found on the Internet. Cork leaped up to answer.
“O’Connor,” he said.
“It’s Deputy Quinn.”
“What’s the word, Dewey?”
“Still uncertain. We got a report from Jon Rude.” Quinn pronounced the name in a way that rhymed with today. “He’s piloting the helicopter. A very good guy. The wind’s a problem up there. It’s kicking his chopper all over the place. But he thinks he’s found a site where he might be able to attempt a landing. It’s about a quarter mile from the ledge where the plane door was spotted, and after he lands there’ll be some climbing involved. Even if he can set down, it will be a while before we know anything. Sorry I don’t have something more solid for you.”