Berkley Prime Crime titles by Margaret Coel
Catherine McLeod Mysteries
BLOOD MEMORY
THE PERFECT SUSPECT
Wind River Mysteries
THE EAGLE CATCHER
THE GHOST WALKER
THE DREAM STALKER
THE STORY TELLER
THE LOST BIRD
THE SPIRIT WOMAN
THE THUNDER KEEPER
THE SHADOW DANCER
KILLING RAVEN
WIFE OF MOON
EYE OF THE WOLF
THE DROWNING MAN
THE GIRL WITH BRAIDED HAIR
THE SILENT SPIRIT
THE SPIDER’S WEB
BUFFALO BILL’S DEAD NOW
KILLING CUSTER
NIGHT OF THE WHITE BUFFALO
THE MAN WHO FELL FROM THE SKY
Anthologies
WATCHING EAGLES SOAR
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This book is an original publication of the Berkley Publishing Group.
Copyright © 2015 by Margaret Coel.
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-19128-0
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Coel, Margaret, 1937–
The man who fell from the sky / Margaret Coel.—First edition.
pages ; cm
ISBN 978-0-425-28030-0
1. O’Malley, John (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Holden, Vicky (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Wind River Indian Reservation (Wyo.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3553.O347M36 2015
813'.54—dc23 2015012397
FIRST EDITION: September 2015
Cover illustration by Tony Greco & Associates Inc.
Cover design by Lesley Worrell.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
For Carl Schneider, my longtime friend and fount of useful information, suggestions, wit, wisdom, and encouragement.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My deep gratitude to all those who were willing to help me with various aspects of this book and who took the time to read all or parts of the manuscript and make suggestions that greatly improved the story: In Fremont County, Mark Stratmoen, coroner; Ed McAuslan, former coroner; Virginia and Jim Sutter, members of the Arapaho Tribe; and Todd Dawson, special agent, FBI. In Boulder, Sheila Carrigan, Beverly Carrigan, Karen Gilleland, Carl Schneider, John Tracy, and, as always, my husband, George Coel. Any errors that may have crept into this novel are mine, and certainly not theirs.
CONTENTS
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Margaret Coel
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Author’s Note
We shall surely be put again with our friends. E’yahe’eye!
—The Ghost-Dance Religion and the Sioux Outbreak of 1890, James Mooney
1
THE NARROW DIRT road clung to the mountainside between the granite peaks jutting overhead and the drop-off into the valley. Ponderosas, scrub brush, and scruffy undergrowth looked fat and green after the spring rain, greener than Alan Fergus remembered the Wind River range ever looking. It was the fourth Friday in May. The foliage wouldn’t turn gray and dusty until the summer heat set in. Tommy had been locked down in a classroom about as long as any twelve-year-old boy could stand, and since Tommy had a day off from school, they had made plans for a fishing trip. He and the boy rose early, the blue-black sky striped in red and pink and white, ate what Alan called a hearty breakfast, oatmeal that would stick to their ribs, and spent an hour in the garage packing up the fishing gear. Quiet, quiet, he had reminded the boy. Don’t wake Mom. Let her sleep in for once. Usually Sarah was the first one up. A good hot breakfast on the kitchen table before she and Alan drove to the body shop and Tommy ran the half block to catch the school bus.
It had taken some work to convince Eton to come in early and handle the front counter until Sarah arrived. All the cajoling and promises of extra time off next week had been worth it. A perfect day to escape, father and son, man-to-man. Tommy, almost grown now, getting so tall. They hadn’t taken enough special times together, and before he knew it, Tommy would be gone. Off to some college, most likely. Maybe Laramie. He was a good student. A little restless, but what boy wasn’t restless? He had been restless, and his father had taken him to Frye Lake to fish, and it had made all the difference. Sucked the restless, fidgety parts right out of him. Alan had backed out of the driveway this morning as the white-hot sun burst like the afterglow of fireworks in the eastern sky.
Tommy seemed pleased with the change in routine. Bouncing on the seat to whatever music blasted in his earphones, gawking this way and that, pointing out a hawk that lay flat out in the sky, guessing how many trout they would bag today. A dozen, two dozen. Our limit, for sure.
Yeah, our limit, Alan agreed.
The road narrowed as it started into a curve. Alan kept the pickup as close to the middle as he dared. The edge could be moist and soft. Theirs wouldn’t be the first pickup to slide down the mountainside. He drove slowly, in and out of wide stripes of shadows, and listened for an oncoming vehicle. If he listened hard, his dad had taught him, he would hear a vehicle before he saw it. Although he wasn’t sure what he would do. Slam on the brake and back up, search frantically for a wider place in the road in which to pull over.
“Keep your fingers crossed,” he said as he plunged into the curve.
“Keep my fingers crossed?”
“That the fish are biting. Should be hungry with the rain. Seen the lake yet?”
Tommy leaned toward the windshield and stared past the drop-off, eager eyes searching for a glimpse of shimmering blue water. The w
ide curve straightened into a narrow brown road that glowed in the sunlight.
“There it is.” The boy’s excitement was contagious. First sight of the fishing hole was always exciting, filled with expectations and promises. Tommy tapped the windshield. “Down there. We’re getting close.”
Alan stole a sideways look. Bull Lake spread below, meandering through the valley, reflections of ponderosas dancing on the blue surface. Another couple of curves, and the road would empty into a long straight shot down to the lake. They’d be there in ten minutes.
“Looks like another fisherman.”
“Really? So early in the season?” Alan had been counting on having the lake all to themselves. Nobody else to worry about, no thumping music and portable grills, makeshift picnic tables, lawn chairs, and kids running around, hollering and scaring off the fish. Through an alley between the trees, he spotted the truck parked close to the narrow strip of land where he was planning to stop. He swallowed back the disappointment. There was a good shelf there they could wade onto and cast into deep water where the fish were usually biting. The shelf disappeared on either side of the truck, but if he drove past, he might be able to pick it up again. Part of the fun of fishing for Tommy was the wading, the walking into the water, as if he were walking on the water.
Alan took the last couple of curves, listening for an oncoming vehicle, and headed down onto the straight road that cut through willows and tangled brush along the lakefront. He could see the truck parked ahead, a grayish monster with an extended cab and a metal box in the back. It was nosed toward the lake, water lapping the shore a few feet away. The tailgate stuck out into the road, and Alan had to slow to a crawl to get around it without slipping into the willows.
“Dad! He’s in the water.”
Alan worked his way around the truck before looking back. My God! A large body—a man’s body—bobbing in the water on the far side of the truck. He let the pickup roll a little farther ahead, wanting to spare Tommy another view of the dead man. “I’ll go have a look.” The pickup jerked to a stop. “Stay here, you understand?”
The boy looked scared, as if he might start crying. He nodded slowly, but he didn’t say anything.
Alan got out and slammed the door. The sound reverberated in the crisp, clear air. He glanced back as he made his way through the marshy undergrowth toward the body. Tommy was up on his knees, looking out the rear window, eyes as big as black marbles. He couldn’t save the boy from everything. Not from this view of death.
The body rolled and swayed facedown in the water, the back of a dark blue padded vest bulging, arms outstretched, as if the dead man might be attempting to float. The blue jeans looked like heavy weights pulling the legs down. There was an odd feeling of acceptance that clung to the body, as if the man had walked onto the shelf, stumbled, and been unable to get up, so he had settled in and waited for death. Clumps of black hair lifted off a pinkish scalp dotted with black freckles and moles. Alan reached down, then pulled his hand away. What sense did it make to turn the body over? The man was dead, and the look of his face would only burn itself into Alan’s retinas. Besides, whatever might have happened, no investigator would appreciate his tampering with the body. He looked around, realizing he may have already interfered by walking over here.
He hurried back to the pickup, punching at his cell, willing it to come to life. No service. No service. The boy was still on his knees, looking out the back window, when Alan slid behind the steering wheel. He turned the ignition and drove forward. There were camping spaces on the other side of the road ahead where he could turn around.
“We’re leaving him?”
“I’m afraid he’s dead, son. There’s nothing we can do for him. We have to report this.”
“You think he came up here to fish and fell into the water?”
“I don’t know.” Alan was thinking he hadn’t seen any fishing poles or tackle box in the truck bed.
He took a right toward a camping space and maneuvered the pickup through several tight turns until they were headed back toward the body and the truck hanging over the road. No telling how far he would have to drive up the mountain before the cell phone tapped into a tower somewhere. He looked sideways at Tommy, who was still fighting back tears.
“I’ll make it up to you, son.”
“I don’t ever want to come here again,” the boy said.
2
RUTH WALKING BEAR might have been hosting a party. Darting among the Arapahos in the living room, hoisting a metal coffeepot, pulling orange-red lips into a smile around tiny teeth, searching with dark eyes for the next empty mug. “More coffee? Cake? Cookies? Casseroles. Eat up. Eat up.” The silver embroidery on her red, Western-style blouse flashed as she moved about. Her flip-flops squished on the vinyl floor. She had curly black hair tinted red, and the curls sprang free from beaded clips like feathers in a headdress. Odors of fried meat, strong coffee, and warm cookies wafted from the kitchen, where women were arranging trays of food and setting out stacks of paper plates. Ruth stopped before one of the elders. “Why, Grandfather, your cup is empty.”
Vicky Holden kept an eye on the woman. Something forced and terrified about her. In another life, she and Ruth had attended St. Francis School together. Kids, climbing onto the school bus and crossing the reservation in blizzards and wind and rolling dust. Ruth had exuded confidence, as if she were driving the bus, in control of the weather, but Vicky had suspected even then that the confidence was a mask, like the party face she wore now. During the years Vicky had been married to Ben Holden, she often ran into Ruth at the powwows and ceremonies. They would chat and gossip—two women together. But Vicky had left Ben and that old life, gone to Denver, and become a lawyer. Everything was different when she returned, or was it just that she was different? It seemed that Ruth and the other women had gone away, set their moccasins on the traditional path, as the grandmothers said, and she had been unable to follow.
Vicky tried to excuse herself from a short, gray-haired woman who claimed she had also gone to St. Francis School, although Vicky had no memory of her. The woman had been peppering her with questions. What had she heard about Robert’s death? “People don’t fall into a lake and die. Must’ve been pushed, right? Who might have done it? What does the coroner say?” For some reason, the woman—what was her name? Cathy?— assumed that because Vicky practiced law in Lander, she was part of the conversations in the legal corridors of the white world.
Vicky had dodged the questions. She didn’t know the answers, but Cathy, like every other woman on the rez, probably knew quite a lot or thought she did. The women never missed a gathering. They looked after the elders, cared for one another’s kids. They lived by the moccasin telegraph and took pride in staying connected. What Cathy wanted from her was news to pass on. But the questions had only reinforced Vicky’s feeling of being an outsider among her own people. Woman Alone, the grandmothers called her. The Indian lawyer their relatives or friends went to when they got into trouble, but not one of them.
It took several tries before Vicky managed to break free. She made her way through the conversations buzzing about the room and stopped next to Ruth, who was refilling another cup of coffee. “Wouldn’t you like to rest awhile?” Vicky nodded toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Most of the houses on the rez were the same Federal style with living room and kitchen on one side, a couple of bedrooms and a bath on the other.
“I don’t need to rest, and I certainly don’t need a lawyer.” Ruth struggled to keep the orange-red smile in place. “Robert’s dead and I have to go on the way he would expect me to, so that’s what I’m doing. You need some coffee?” She started to turn toward the kitchen and the stack of Styrofoam cups visible at the end of the counter.
“No, thank you.” Vicky set her hand on the woman’s arm. She could feel the tremors rising from somewhere deep inside. “Won’t you at least sit down. I can pour the refill
s.” She stretched out her hand to take the coffeepot, but Ruth stood motionless, her eyes on the man coming through the front door.
“Ah, Father John,” she said, as if she were expecting someone else. Then she handed the coffeepot to Vicky and started across the room. Conversations started to dissolve, like the wind dying down.
Vicky watched the little crowd surge around the tall, redheaded man inside the door, reach for his hand, pat his arm. He had on blue jeans and a blue plaid shirt. The brim of a tan cowboy hat was curled in his fist against his thigh. It had been a long while since she had seen John O’Malley, the mission priest at St. Francis. She thought of the intervals between their meetings not in days or weeks or months, but in seasons. The fall, the holidays and winter, the spring. He looked fit, strong and straight, yet different somehow. A few more gray hairs at his temples, more fine lines around his eyes. He reached for Ruth and drew her toward him. In the quiet that engulfed the living room, Vicky heard him say how sorry he was. She was thinking that everyone on the rez had come to love this white man who, one day, had shown up among them.
Ruth was leaning against his chest, her red blouse with the shiny embroidery stretched across her spine, shoulders rising and falling as she gulped for air. Vicky walked over and placed a hand on the woman’s back, conscious of John O’Malley’s eyes on her. Finally she looked up and met his gaze. “She’s been holding it in. It’s a terrible blow, losing your husband like that.”
The room remained quiet, as if a show were going on that held the audience spellbound. Vicky could feel the eyes boring into them, three people huddled together. And the calmness that emanated from John O’Malley, a man accustomed to such situations. So many people he had comforted on the rez, so many inexplicable deaths. They had worked together since he came to the mission almost ten years ago. Trying to help her people: the alcohol and drug addicts, the abused women and neglected children, the scared and lonely warriors facing charges for crimes they hadn’t committed.
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