“So what are you thinking?” Parmer asked.
“I’ve been going over in my mind the passenger list for Bodine’s charter.”
“Who were they?”
“George LeDuc, tribal chair of the Iron Lake Ojibwe. Bob Tall Grass, chair of the RBC for the Northern Cheyenne-”
“RBC?”
“Reservation Business Committee. An organization responsible for bringing business to the rez and overseeing the operations. Many reservations have something like it. Scott No Day, who was also on the plane, was responsible for that for the Eastern Shoshone.”
“Okay, who else?”
“Edgar Little Bear, tribal chairman for the Owl Creek Arapaho. Oliver Washington, who was a Northern Cheyenne and also an attorney. And, of course, Jo and the pilot.”
“Where were they going?”
“Seattle. To the annual conference of the National Congress of American Indians.”
“Was there a reason they were traveling together?”
“They were all part of a committee that was supposed to deliver a report, something about the feasibility of an intertribal agency that would regulate Indian gaming. They met in Casper to go over the presentation, which Jo had prepared for them. Gaming is a huge issue in the Indian community. For a lot of reservations, it’s the promise of a cold drink of water at the end of a long economic drought. But it doesn’t always pan out that way. And among Indians, as among whites, the issue of the morality of gambling is a hot one. There are strong voices on both sides.”
“Economic relief versus spiritual corruption?”
“Not just spiritual. The real corruption that can come with a casino is well known and well documented. I think that was one of the concerns the committee was going to address.”
“Any idea what the report said?”
“I got the feeling from Jo that it wasn’t anything particularly controversial.”
“Still, is it possible someone didn’t want the report delivered?”
“I suppose. But, hell, it was just a report and probably some recommendations. The Indian community moves pretty slowly on everything. Seems unlikely the presentation was something you’d kill a whole plane full of people over.”
Their waitress delivered their beers. There were two additional bottles of Leinenkugel’s Dark on her tray.
“I appreciate that you think of me as a two-fisted drinker,” Cork said, “but at the moment, one beer’ll do me fine.”
The waitress laughed. “These are for those gentlemen over there.” She indicated two men at another table.
“I admire their taste,” Cork said.
She bent down confidentially. “They asked me for a recommendation, something local. I got the idea from you.” She winked at him and headed away to deliver the remaining two beers. When she returned, she took their order and hustled toward the kitchen.
Cork sat back in his chair and sipped from his bottle. “What do Geotech West, Longmont Venture Partners, Fortrell, Inc., and Realm-McCrae have to do with this?”
“Quite simply, development is a way to launder money.”
“How?”
“You know those Russian dolls, the ones where one doll fits inside another, which fits inside another, and so on? It’s a structure often used in this business to disguise the source of investment money. So Geotech is owned by Longmont, which along with Realm-McCrae is a subsidiary of Fortrell. I’m guessing that isn’t the end of this little doll game, but if we were able to get to the end, we might find someone who’d rather not have it known he’s investing in a casino. I know a lot of people who know people. Why don’t I make some calls tonight, see what I can uncover?”
Cork took a long draw on his beer. He could smell barbecue from the kitchen, and it made his mouth water. He put his bottle down. “One of the things I’m still wondering is who set up the charter flight.”
“Without Bodine’s records, is there any way you could find out?”
“Maybe George LeDuc said something to his wife. It wouldn’t hurt to ask.”
Parmer looked toward the restaurant door. “Think we’re in the clear?”
“What do you mean?”
“You were worried we’d been followed.”
“I’m still worried,” Cork said. “I’ll be worried until I have all the answers and all the evidence and put it into the hands of a cop I trust.”
“You could be worried for quite a while.”
Cork shook his head. “It’s always a question of finding a thread to tug, then things usually unravel quickly. And, Hugh, we’ve found our thread.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Rain still fell heavily as they pulled onto U.S. 53 and headed north through Wisconsin toward Duluth. The food had been good and the day had been long and Cork was tired. He figured Parmer had to be pretty beat himself, and he’d offered to drive. The tires rolled over wet pavement with a constant hiss, and the wipers swept across the glass with a hypnotic slap, slap, slap. To keep them both awake, Parmer talked about poker tournaments he’d played in. He was an entertaining raconteur, and despite the odds against, Cork stayed awake too.
They were nearing Superior when a car approached from behind and drew alongside to pass. The road had been mostly empty, and Cork glanced at the vehicle. Through the dark and the rain, it wasn’t easy to see clearly. Even so, Cork thought he recognized the man in the passenger seat, one of the two men from Turtleback to whom the waitress had recommended and then delivered the Leinenkugel’s Dark. The car slipped ahead of them, eased into their lane, and continued to pull away. Cork thought about mentioning it to Parmer, but his companion was deep into a story about a smoky backroom game in a Houston country club and Cork hated to interrupt. They approached a bridge over the Amnicon River. Parmer was saying, “This guy had a tell you could see from outer space.”
Later, Cork would recall what occurred next in harsh detail, as if it had happened in an excruciating dream in which time flowed like chilled honey.
First came the report, sharp in the way of a gunshot, except that the source was Parmer’s Navigator itself, from the undercarriage up front. Next, the Navigator veered right and the beam of the headlights blasted across the guardrail at the south end of the bridge. The vehicle struck and the guardrail exploded. The headlights tunneled into the vast black of empty air, then slowly, dreamily, arced downward and puddled against the raging brown of the rain-swollen river. The circle of light contracted as the Navigator plunged and then hit dead center, like an arrow trued on a bull’s-eye. The impact triggered the air bags. The slug to Cork’s face knocked him nearly unconscious. Vaguely, he felt the river slap the Navigator sideways and the current snatch it roughly and shove it downstream. He knew he was cold and he knew he was wet and even on the edge of unconsciousness he understood what that meant.
He fumbled with his seat restraint. When he’d freed himself, he turned to Parmer, who lay slumped to the side. The river continued to invade the compartment, and the water had reached their waists. Cork released Parmer’s seat belt, wrapped his arms around the man, and pulled him to the driver’s side. He locked Parmer in a cross-chest grip and reached for the door handle. At that same moment, the Navigator slammed into something and came to a sudden halt. Cork tried the door. It wouldn’t budge. He realized the current had wedged the vehicle against a fallen pine, which blocked his exit.
Water foamed around his chest as he maneuvered Parmer and himself to the other side of the Navigator. He tried to open the passenger’s door, but the press of the river was far too powerful. He positioned Parmer against the seat back, stretched his own legs across the man’s body, and kicked at the door window. It was awkward and the effort was further complicated by the rising water, but at last the window broke outward. The river rushed in. Cork muscled past Parmer and through the window. He reached back, gripped his companion’s shirt in both hands, and hauled Parmer from the vehicle. Immediately the river grabbed them.