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.
Then Sarah came on the line. She was in her mid-thirties, more than three decades younger than her husband, with a pretty smile and deep brown eyes that were normally full of good humor. Cork imagined that this morning they were different.
“ Boozhoo, Sarah. How’re you doing?”
“It’s hard, this waiting.”
“I know. How’s Akik?”
Sarah and George had a daughter, whose real name was Olivia, but whom they’d nicknamed Akik, which meant “kettle” in the language of the Ojibwe. She was a plump little girl of five, with a fiery temperament and given to letting off steam.
“I haven’t explained the real concern to her. She’s having a good time with all the relatives and friends here. How’s Stevie?”
“Taking it hard.”
“There’s hope, isn’t there, Cork? I mean, they haven’t even started searching yet.”
“Yeah, Sarah.” He looked out the window at the street in front of his house, all golden in the morning sunlight. “There’s lots of reason to hope,” he said, trying to sound as if he believed every word of it. He hesitated before going on. “I got a call a while ago. A reporter from St. Paul. There’s been an allegation that the pilot had been drinking the night before.”
“No. Oh Jesus, no.”
“Yeah. Marsha Dross is checking it out. You might be getting a call from that same reporter or others. Just thought you ought to know.”
“Thanks, Cork.”
He kept Stephen home from school. Father Ted Green, the priest at St. Agnes, dropped by to offer his help and his prayers. Cork thanked him for the prayers and told him he’d let him know about the help part.
The phone continued to ring. At first, he answered the calls from friends. After a while, he just let everything go to voice mail.
Around noon, Marsha Dross called again.
“Have you been watching CNN?” she asked.
“No, why?”
“That snowstorm coming across the Rockies, it’s creating all kinds of problems from Canada down to New Mexico. CNN’s giving it heavy coverage. They picked up on the story of the missing charter flight. And they’ve got the bartender on camera telling how the pilot was drinking like a fish the night before, bragging about owning his own company and that he was so good he could fly a plane through the crack in the Statue of Liberty’s ass. I don’t know how these people do this, but they’ve already got video from the security cameras in the bar, showing this guy slamming ’em back. They’ve also got a statement from the cabdriver who drove him to his hotel. The guy was so drunk the taxi driver had to pull over and let him out so he could puke.”
Cork felt the scorch of fire behind his eyes. “The son of a bitch. If that guy wasn’t probably already dead, I’d-” Cork stopped, realizing that he was caught in the web of a dreadful thought: Already dead. “Thanks, Marsha.”
“I wish I had some good news, Cork.”
“Yeah. Keep me posted whatever you hear.”
“You know I will.”
He put down the phone and stared at the wall.
Already dead? Was that really what he thought?