“What do you think happened?”
“What?”
“At the lake.”
Cutter leaned back on his elbows and stared up at the sky. A silver-gray now, stars everywhere, and the moon bright and low hanging. The crickets had worked themselves up into full throttle, and the breeze made a hushed noise in the pines. The fire had died back to a warm glow. “He liked the lake. I picture him tromping along the shore, stooping down to splash some water in his face, trying to cool off. Lost his footing and fell in. There’s a steep drop-off, and he must’ve fallen headfirst into the deep part. Upended him, the way I see it. He couldn’t regain his balance and pull himself up and out of the water. Accident, only the fed refuses to believe it so long as that crazy caller keeps stirring things up.” He paused. “What did the caller say happened?”
Vicky shook her head. “You never give up, do you?” She was trying for a lighter tone that masked the uneasiness she felt. They were alone, she and Cutter, darkness falling over the mountains, the nearest campsites a mile away.
Cutter sat back up. “Why are we talking about a dead guy when we’re alive and the night is ours and it’s beautiful.” She could feel the warmth of his arm slipping around her shoulders, drawing her to him. “From now on, let’s talk about us. You and me, Vicky. We’re a great pair. It’s like I came home to find you. And, well . . .” He hesitated before pushing on. “You’ve been here all this time waiting for me.”
“Oh, Cutter.” She tried to pull away, but he was holding her close. She could feel his heart beating beneath his plaid shirt, strong and steady. “We don’t know anything about each other.” Her own voice sounded muffled against his shirt, and she managed to push herself back and face him. “We have to take things slowly.”
“I don’t like slowly. I see what I want, I go for it.” He gave a little laugh. “It might take you a little longer, but you will come around, I promise you.”
Vicky started to her feet, and he pulled her back. He was on her then, kissing her, pressing her against the hard ground. “Take a chance on us,” he whispered. “Be brave, Vicky. Be brave.”
She managed to scramble away and jump to her feet. She could feel her heart pounding against her ribs. What difference would it make if she and this handsome, take-charge man made love next to the campfire? Who would care? Except there was something about him—unknown and yet familiar, something reminiscent of Ben Holden, so handsome and always in control. “I’d like to leave now,” she said.
“We’ll leave later. When I say so.” He reached up, grabbed her hand, and pulled her back onto the blanket. “You have to learn to trust me, Vicky.” His lips were warm and moist against her face and neck. “Trust me. I’m the best thing for you. We’ll be good together.”
She tried to push away again, but his chest was hard and stationary. It was like pushing against a boulder. “What about Ruth?” The question surprised her, erupting out of nowhere, and yet, she realized it had been hovering at the edge of her mind.
Cutter drew back, taking a moment to marshal his response. “Ruth is my cousin’s wife. She’s family, and family means everything to us Raps. I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. Why would you ask such a question?”
“She’s in love with you.” Vicky knew with a dead certainty it was true, the shadowy truth that had been following her around since the day at Ruth’s house when Ruth kept looking for Cutter, wondering when he would show up. An ugly suspicion, Vicky had told herself. What right did she have to be suspicious of a woman who had just learned that her husband was dead? She had tried to push it aside, and still it had followed her, nagged at her. Pay attention. Pay attention. Grandmother’s voice in her head. You can feel when something isn’t right.
“Enough about Ruth.” Cutter was on her, pushing her hard into the ground. She tried pummeling his chest, but he swept her hands away and locked them down.
“No, Cutter!” She was yelling, but there was no one around. Crickets somewhere, maybe a squirrel scampering up a tree. She was alone with a man about to rape her.
“I said, no!” She kicked at the brown bag that tumbled back into the fire. Flames swooshed into the air and licked at the blanket. Then a loud crack as the flames ignited the alcohol Cutter had spilled.
“Damn it!” Cutter jumped up and started stomping the fire.
A half second was all it took. Vicky was on her feet, scooping up her bag as she ran. Down the path and through the trees, a shortcut to the road. Cutter behind her, yelling her name. “Come back. Come back.”
She was inside the Ford, the door locked, the keys in her hand. She jammed the key in the ignition and willed the engine to turn over. Cutter outside, banging his fists on her window. My God, he was going to break the window! She shifted into forward and threw her weight onto the gas pedal. The Ford jumped into life, up and over a clump of dirt and out onto the road. Cutter running alongside, shouting and banging, and then he was in the rearview mirror, hands thrown in the air, as if he could call the evil spirits down on her.
28
THE ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS meeting had ended thirty minutes ago, but several members remained behind. Folding up metal chairs, stacking them against the far wall of Eagle Hall, dumping coffee grounds and washing up the containers, bagging Styrofoam cups and wadded napkins. Father John had stood outside, shaking hands as members filed out—more women than men this evening—telling them to keep up the good work. Live in hope. He had been living in hope for more than ten years now. It was the best you could expect. The evening breeze had turned cool. Out on Circle Drive he could hear engines ramping up, tires skittering on gravel. When he went back inside, the place had been wiped clean, as if no one had been there for weeks. The only telltale sign, a slight whiff of coffee that lingered in the air.
Usually Father John stopped in the church for a few moments, allowing the quiet and peace to reach into his soul. But tonight he found himself heading back to the administration building. The heavy oak door creaked on the hinges as he yanked it open. A dim light burned in the corridor and cast a pattern of light and shadows over the photos of Jesuits past that lined the walls. He thought of them as mentors, these silent men, standing firm and showing the way he must go. He never wanted to let them down; it would have meant letting down the past.
His office was on the right, but he kept going. He flipped on the light in the small hallway that led to the miniature kitchen, a bathroom, an alcove that served as the storeroom and, at the far end, what passed as an archive. The room was the size of a large closet, ringed with shelves that sagged under stacks of books. A lightbulb hung over the rectangular table in the center, with a chain that dangled alongside it. He pulled the chain, then pulled it again, coaxing the bulb into life. A circle of light flowed over the table and melted against the shelves.
It took a while to find the records he was searching for. A series of books, piled against one another and double stacked, with dates from the 1970s imprinted on the spines in a faded gold tint. He pulled out the first book, 1970, and set it on the table. Then he pulled over a stool and began thumbing through the brittle pages with yellowing edges. St. Francis Mission School Kindergarten through Twelfth Grade appeared in black print across the top of each page. He turned back to the first page, and there, like a shepherd guarding his flock, was Father Patrick O’Connor, pastor of St. Francis Mission. In the paragraph below, he welcomed the students and the parents, “the St. Francis family,” to a new year at the mission school, a new journey toward learning and growing closer to God.
Father John started with the kindergarten section, scanning three pages of black-and-white photos of Arapaho kids, some with smiles as big as their faces. Names of students, as well as the names of parents and contact information were printed below each photo. A few kids looked familiar, but that was because the families were still on the rez, and family resemblances ran strong. No photo of Vicky, no photos of Walkin
g Bears.
He turned to the first grade section: He found Ruth first, dark hair and lively eyes, energy bursting from the photograph. He thumbed through the next pages, and there was Vicky, staring out at the world with the familiar determined look, as if she were looking beyond her six-year-old self into a big future filled with possibilities. He would have recognized her anywhere, at any age. Through all the changes and growth, her soul was the same. Below the photo were the names of her parents: Mary and Albert Plenty Horses. After she had divorced Ben Holden and moved to Denver to become a lawyer, they had raised her children. Whenever she spoke about the fleeting weekends, the snatches of summer vacations with Susan and Lucas, it was accompanied by the sound of pain. The children grown now. Susan making a life in Los Angeles; Lucas, in Denver.
He turned to the W’s. Still no Walking Bears. He moved to the next classes. In the third grade photos he spotted Dallas Spotted Deer. Round, puffy pockmarked face, the signs of scarlet fever that, from time to time, had raced across the reservation. A smiling miniature of the man he would become. In the fifth grade, Father John found Bernice Walking Bear and, next to her photo, Robert Walking Bear. The same eyes and noses, the jut of their jaws, all elements he recognized. He thumbed forward. A few other Walking Bears in high school, but no names he recognized.
Father John returned the book to the shelf and took the one with 1975 on the spine. There was Vicky, eleven years old in the fifth grade, smiling at the camera now, more confident and self-assured. Yes, I will be a lawyer someday. I will help my people. He smiled back at her. He wished he had known her then, but in a strange way, he felt as if he had.
The name James Walking Bear appeared under the photo of a brown-faced kid who peered at the camera out of narrowed, deep-set eyes, a look of daring in his expression, as if there were a world to explore and take possession of, and nothing could hold him back. A lank of hair had fallen over his forehead, but at any moment he might have tossed his head and pushed the hair into place, if he chose. There was something unpredictable about him, unmanageable, and yet Father John had enjoyed teaching kids like that, enjoyed the challenge of channeling all that energy and imagination into something positive.
He slid the book toward the center of the light and studied the features, looking for something familiar. The wide-set eyes, the nose with the prominent bump, the ears that stood out at attention. The eleven-year-old boy who would become Cutter? Who had come to the mission to reminisce, who remembered a boarding school that didn’t exist when he was a student? Maybe, Father John thought. The photo could be of Cutter. Dark skin, black hair, and suspicious eyes. Perhaps they were the same, changed and developed over the years. Life had a way of inscribing itself on faces. Still the photo made him uneasy, as if it were untrue, inauthentic, like an image forged from multiple pieces. With Vicky’s photo, and even photos of the Walking Bear cousins, their elemental selves shone through. He slipped the small pad out of his shirt pocket, found a pencil on the shelf, and wrote down the name of James Walking Bear’s parents: Agnes and Macon Walking Bear . . . my father took us to Oklahoma. Where in Oklahoma? Cutter hadn’t said.
The sound of an engine shattered the silence, followed by footsteps on the concrete stoop and the crack of the front door opening and shutting. He should have locked the door, but it was late for anyone to stop by. He hadn’t expected a visitor. He left the book on the table and went down the hallway to the corridor. Vicky stood inside the door, staring into his darkened office, a dazed look about her as if the wind had deposited her in a strange place.
“Vicky!” He hurried past the photos of Jesuits past, and she fell into his arms.
“Oh, thank God you’re here.” She was shaking, her fingers pulling at the back of his shirt.
“What is it? What happened?”
“I’m a fool.”
“You’re not a fool. Are you hurt? Are you in pain?”
Vicky shook her head, but she kept her eyes down, avoiding his eyes. He waited. When she was ready, she would tell him. He guided her across his study to the upholstered chair in the corner. Then he hooked a hard-back chair with his boot and pulled it over. He sat on the edge, leaning toward her, circling her again in his arms.
They sat in silence for several minutes. Finally, she said, “I went with him on a picnic in the mountains. I shouldn’t have gone. I have a court hearing in the morning; I have to get ready.” She didn’t say who he was, and Father John didn’t ask. He understood they were talking about Cutter Walking Bear. “I never should have trusted him. He comes on so strong, so assured, like the world exists just for him. He had taken care of everything. The food, the cooler with drinks, a blanket, newspapers to start the fire with. He handled it all, and I allowed myself to think . . . God, I was so blind. I thought he was strong, confident, interesting and . . .” She hesitated a second before she said, “Respectful. I thought he really wanted to get to know me, and that maybe, just maybe, when we got to know each other, we might find something. How could I be such a fool.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“He held me down. He tried to rape me, but I was able to get away. I kicked at the fire until it spread to the blanket, and I ran.”
Father John could feel the heat rising inside him, like the fire spreading to the blanket. He wanted to protect her; somehow he should have protected her from this. But how? At what point should he have warned her? Warned her of what? A good-looking Arapaho who seemed to know who he was, where he was going? It had been only minutes since he found the photo, minutes since he had wondered if Cutter Walking Bear was an impostor. He felt his muscles tensing, his hands closing into fists. He wanted to smash in the impostor’s face. He pulled her closer and tipped his head onto the top of hers, his lips on her hair, the warm, frightened smell of her in his nostrils. The whole scene played like a movie in front of his eyes: the mountains, the night falling, the fire crackling. Cutter and Vicky on the blanket . . . He struggled to make the scene fade out, and yet he didn’t want it to fade. He wanted to share the fear and the horror. He didn’t want her to carry it alone.
“He assaulted you. He tried to rape you. You have to report this.”
Vicky pulled away and sat back against the chair, a sad amusement in her eyes, a smile almost of pity at the corners of her mouth. “Call the sheriff? Make a long report? I’ve seen cases like this, John. Nothing will be done. He didn’t succeed. There is no evidence, and it would be my word against his.”
“He assaulted you.”
“He didn’t hit me. I don’t have any bruises. I don’t want the trouble. It’s bad enough . . .” Her voice was cracking, tears blossoming in her eyes. “I want to put it behind me, get over it. Learn from it. Listen to my own instincts. There was always something about Cutter that wasn’t, I don’t know, real.”
He told her then about the photo, and when she said she wanted to see it, he went to the archive and retrieved the book. On the way back, he stopped in the little kitchen and filled a glass with water. He handed her the water first, which she took in both hands and drank as if she had been wandering the parched prairie for days. After she set the glass on the floor, he found the page of smiling fifth graders and handed her the open book.
“I don’t know.” A long moment had passed before she spoke. “How can we know for sure? Look at me?” She tapped a finger on the photo of her eleven-year-old self. “I don’t look like that anymore.”
“But you are there.”
She went back to staring at the kid named James Walking Bear. After a moment she looked up. “All the Walking Bear cousins accept him. They would know if he were a fake. Besides, why would anyone come around and claim to be someone he wasn’t when there are people here who knew him as a kid?”
“There’s something else.” He had debated telling her about Dallas Spotted Deer. She’d been through enough tonight, but now it seemed that she should know. “Dallas Spotted Deer’s truck we
nt off the mountainside today. He was killed.”
“Killed! My God. How sad for the family.”
“He drove a white truck.”
Vicky jolted upward, eyes wide in shock and comprehension. “The caller drove a white truck. He witnessed Robert’s murder.”
“Vicky, we don’t know . . .”
“Oh, you know that we know. Dallas must have gone on the treasure hunt, and whoever killed Robert has now killed him. What happened? How did he go off the road?”
“It was a sharp curve. He must have taken it too fast and couldn’t correct. Or another vehicle could have been in the oncoming lane and he veered to the outer edge.”
“Or somebody nudged him off the road.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because, John. Because . . .” Then he was listening to the rest of the story. How Cutter had shown up at her office prepared for a picnic, how he was driving a rental pickup because he’d had a fender bender and his truck was in the shop. They had taken her Ford. Somehow she had managed to drive off, Cutter running alongside, pounding on her window, shouting and swearing. “He’ll have to hitchhike out,” she said. “He might have to walk.”
“He knows where you live.”
She nodded. “He left the rental at my apartment.”
“He could be very angry when he gets back. You have to stay here tonight. The guesthouse is vacant.”
She nodded again, as if she had been turning the idea over in her mind. “I’ll have to leave in the morning in time to get to court for a hearing.” She looked at him with such trust that after a second, he had to look away. He couldn’t shake the sense that somehow he had let her down. He should have taken care. Take care. Take care. The words echoed in his head. Take care of the people you love.
“You’ll be safe here,” he told her. “I promise.”
29
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The Man Who Fell from the Sky Page 20
