The Thunder Keeper

by Margaret Coel

  She waited until the waitress had delivered plates of chicken dumplings and poured two mugs of coffee. “Of course I trust you, Steve,” she said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  In his eyes, Vicky caught an image of the woman he was staring at: determined, stubborn. She was as transparent as the windowpane next to their table. “I have to know what Vince Lewis wanted to tell me,” she said.

  He seemed to consider this, cutting into the chicken, taking a bite. Finally he said, “I want to get to the bottom of Lewis’s death as much as you do. I want to find the son of a bitch who was driving that car, and put him away for the rest of his miserable life. Problem is, you talking to Jana Lewis could jeopardize the investigation. Right now the grieving widow could be the number-one suspect.”

  “I don’t think Jana Lewis had anything to do with her husband’s murder.”

  Steve stabbed at another piece of chicken. “Mind telling me what brought you to this conclusion?”

  “She had no idea her husband was murdered,” Vicky said. “She was convinced his death was an accident.”

  The detective took another bite and began chewing slowly, his eyes not leaving hers. “You realize,” he said finally, “that you’ll have to testify about your conversation if we put Jana Lewis on trial for murder. Hiring somebody to kill her husband is the same as doing the deed herself.”

  “There’s no motivation, Steve.” Vicky felt herself moving onto firmer ground. It was the feeling she had in the courtroom when she knew a case was won.

  “Oh, no? Three million dollars isn’t enough motivation for you?”

  “Jana comes from a wealthy, influential family,” Vicky plunged on. “The mansion is probably hers. Why would she take a chance on throwing it all away?”

  Steve shrugged. “You ever know wealthy people with enough money? There’s never enough, Vicky.”

  “Jana had started divorce proceedings,” she said.

  “I know that.” He looked away, and she could see the vein pulsing in his neck.

  “The point is,” she went on, “Jana Lewis was represented by the company’s lawyers.” She had his attention now. “Vince was the vice-president, not his wife. Why didn’t the lawyers represent him?”

  “You’re the lawyer,” Steve said, a harshness in his tone that surprised her. He might have been interrogating a street thug. “Suppose you tell me?”

  She drew in a long breath. “I think Jana Lewis is having an affair with Nathan Baider. He arranged for a divorce attorney at the company’s firm to represent her.”

  “Jesus, Vicky. First it’s diamonds on the reservation. Now Jana Lewis and Nathan Baider are having an affair. Where’s the evidence? Nobody’s ever heard of diamonds up there, and nobody at Baider Industries has mentioned Jana and the boss in the same breath.” He leaned toward her, his voice low now, precisely controlled. “I want you out of this investigation, understand? Your theories stink. Forget about Vince Lewis.”

  Vicky dropped her napkin beside her plate. “Sometimes, Steve, you can be a real bastard.” She got to her feet, took her bag from the back of the chair, and started for the door. What he’d said had the sting of truth. She had a theory. There was no evidence. She was forcing every scrap of information into her own preconceived image of what had happened. Why should it matter to her that some white man killed another white man?

  She was across the sidewalk and walking around the Bronco when Steve caught up with her, took her arm, and turned her toward him. His grip was strong. She tried to pull away, scraping the back of her leg on the bumper.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I’m a bastard. But I can’t stand the idea of your being involved in murder. If there’s anything to your theory—I’m not saying there is—then it could be dangerous. Whoever wanted Lewis dead could want you dead, too. I can’t stand to think about it, Vicky.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, finally pulling free.

  He took her hand. “Please try to understand. It’s just that I feel so damn helpless, so frustrated, every time I see you. Every time I think of you, and . . .” He paused. “I mean, couldn’t you like me a little?”

  “You know I like you, Steve,” she said, forgiving him, an old friend from that time when she was scared and alone, except for the young white man fresh out of the navy.

  “I’m asking for something more, Vicky.” He tightened his hand around hers. “I can be a bastard, but I’m working on that.”

  She slipped her hand free and ran a finger along the edge of his jaw. She could feel the prickly growth of today’s beard. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re a good man. You deserve more.”

  A phone started ringing, a muffled noise nearly lost in the dark evening. He reached inside his sport coat and extracted a small black cell phone. “Clark,” he said, his eyes on hers, as if he could hold her in place.

  A second passed, then another. His lips moved close to the phone. “I’ll be right there.” He tapped a button and slipped the phone back inside his coat.

  “What is it?” she said. Please, God, she was thinking. Not another murder.

  “Vicky . . .” He hesitated. “I’m sorry, Vicky. A patrol car just spotted a woman’s body dumped next to the tracks behind the Union Station. It’s Jana Lewis.”

  “What?” Vicky felt the muscles in her stomach constrict, and her throat went dry.

  “Looks like somebody beat her to death.” Steve took her hand again, then let it go. “I’ll call you,” he said.

  He whirled around and ran to the Ford. A second passed, and the car turned into the street and accelerated, leaving behind the faintest smell of exhaust.

  Vicky retraced her route through the neighborhood. Left turn. Down three blocks. Another left. Only half-aware of the houses lining the streets, as if some part of her had switched into automatic. She parked the Bronco in front of her house, went inside, and dropped onto a dining-room chair next to the phone. She dialed the number at St. Francis Mission.

  22

  “Father O’Malley.” He had picked up the phone on the first ring.

  Even before she spoke, he knew Vicky was on the other end. The months collapsed into the moment. It was as if she had never left. He waited. The sounds of “O! mio babbino caro” drifted around him. Beyond the study, the residence was encased in quiet. Light from the lamps on Circle Drive glowed in the window and mingled with the circle of light over his desk.

  Finally the words burst through the line in a sob. “I have to talk to you, John.”

  “What’s happened? Are you okay?” He reached around and turned down the volume on the tape player. Then he pressed the receiver against his ear, listening for the sounds of her breath. “Vicky, are you okay?” he asked again.

  “A woman I met today was just murdered.” She blurted out the words.

  “Tell me about it.”

  He heard her take in a long breath. Then the shuddering explanation. First, a man by the name of Vince Lewis, on the way to meet her, run down by a car. And this evening, his wife, Jana, beaten to death near the railroad tracks. She’d gone to see the woman earlier, mentioned that her husband had been murdered. The woman was drunk, shocked at the idea of murder.

  “My God, John. What if she confronted the killer about her husband’s murder? I could be responsible for her death.”

  “Listen to me, Vicky,” he said, switching to his counseling voice, firm and steady. “The woman was drunk. She could have gone to a bar and picked up somebody. There’s no telling what a drunk might do. Drunks aren’t rational.” That was true. He had been at his irrational best when he was drunk.

  She’d drawn in a ragged breath and told him that Vince Lewis had worked for a diamond mining company, Baider Industries. “I think he might have found a diamond deposit on the reservation. The company is hiding it.”

  It surprised him. He’d never heard of diamond mines here.

  “A crew could be working in a remote area.” Her voice gained urgency. “They could be removi
ng gems right under the noses of the tribes and not paying royalties. And they may never have to pay royalties if the appeals court doesn’t reverse—” She paused. “In any case, Jana Lewis denied knowing anything, but I think she was covering for the company’s founder, Nathan Baider. I think they were having an affair. He might have killed her.”

  “You don’t know that, Vicky.”

  The sobbing started again, a muffled sound, as if she’d placed a palm over the mouthpiece. “So many people dead because of me,” she managed.

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. She’d shot a man last year to save his life. It was a heavy burden, and he wished he could take it from her, that she didn’t have to carry it alone.

  “Is Lucas there?” he said finally.

  The line was silent for a couple seconds. Then she told him that Lucas had started a new job, that he’d probably move into an apartment soon. “He doesn’t need my problems,” she said.

  “He’s your son, Vicky. He loves you.”

  “I have to be strong for the kids, John. They have to see me strong.”

  “You don’t have to be strong for everybody.” He knew that she believed otherwise. Everybody saw her strength. Only a few saw her vulnerability. Ben Holden, he knew. And himself. This new thought made him feel absurdly close to her.

  “I can’t let them get away with it,” she said.

  He understood who she was talking about. “Baider Industries is a company, Vicky. They’re bound to have a lot of power. Let the police handle this. It’s not your responsibility.”

  “Vince Lewis was on his way to see me. His wife may have died because of me. Don’t tell me I have no responsibility.”

  “Then forgive yourself,” he said. “You didn’t intend any harm. You had nothing to do with their deaths.”

  “You know, John O’Malley, sometimes you can be too damn logical.” He could picture the red flush that came into her cheeks when she was angry. “All your beautiful logic can get in the way of the truth.”

  Perhaps, he thought.

  “I guess I needed the logic anyway,” she said, her voice calmer now. The line went quiet for a couple seconds. “I got your message,” she said finally. Then she told him what she’d learned about Eddie: he wasn’t a regular at the Indian Center, but he’d been there about a month ago. He drove a brown pickup. Grover had beaten him up in the parking lot. “Maybe he followed Grover to the reservation and killed him,” she said.

  He smiled. It wasn’t the first time they’d reached the same conclusion.

  “How did you know about Eddie?” she asked.

  He’d gotten the name from Grover’s girlfriend, he told her. An Indian girl, working in a convenience store, too scared to talk to the police.

  “She can tie Eddie to Grover.” The urgency had returned. “Eddie could come after her, too. She could be in danger, John.”

  Another conclusion they shared, he thought. He said, “If I can flush him out—”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  He stopped himself from telling her about the newspaper article. “Let’s just say I’m trying to locate him. If I get his name, Detective Slinger will pick him up for questioning.”

  She was quiet, and he had the sense something else was on her mind. After a moment she said, “What about the lawsuit?”

  He didn’t want to talk about the lawsuit. Just thinking about it filled him with a mixture of anger and shame. “My new assistant, Don Ryan—”

  “Assistant!” she interrupted.

  He felt as if he’d taken a fastball in his chest. Had she thought he was the target of the lawsuit? My God, what did she think of him?

  “It was an affair, Vicky,” he said finally, keeping his voice steady. “He’d been counseling her. If the case goes to court, the woman will probably win. The provincial doesn’t believe insurance will cover all the damages.”

  “Where does that leave the mission?”

  “We’ll have to sell the land along the highway,” he heard himself saying. He felt as if he were talking about selling a part of himself. “There probably wouldn’t have been enough money to build the day-care and a new senior center, anyway.”

  “Oh, John. You had such hopes . . .” She let the thought trail away. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  So was he, he thought. “Listen, Vicky,” he went on, “promise me you’ll be careful. Don’t put yourself in any danger.”

  “Same to you, John O’Malley,” she said.

  Father John watched the ball arc high over center field. “Move in!” he yelled, cupping one hand over his mouth like a megaphone. The sound of his voice floated through the afternoon air, still damp from yesterday’s rain. But the sky was as crystalline blue as a mountain lake, and the sun was warm on his back. He’d called Eldon Antelope this morning to announce a practice, and this afternoon fifteen kids had shown up.

  Now Randy White Horse was sprinting across the field, the small, intent brown face turned into the sun. He reached up and grabbed the ball out of the air, making it look easy.

  “All right!” Father John shook his fist. He’d been pacing the field for almost two hours, drilling the kids on fly balls, grounders—whatever came their way. The field looked as if it had been plowed, with ridges of mud erupting through the barely dried surface.

  “Weight back, eye on the ball!” Eldon Antelope shouted to the hitter. His son, Joseph, was on first base, jamming a fist into his glove.

  So far the Eagles looked good, the way they were hitting the ball, shagging the flies, scooping up the grounders. Almost as if they’d played the last game yesterday instead of six months ago. Barring any unforeseen catastrophes—injuries or dropouts—they had a good chance of winning the league title. For a moment Father John felt like a kid again on the sandlots in Boston. The world could be crazy, an out-of-whack place, but everything was right on the diamond.

  This would be a great season, he told himself, trying to ignore the uneasiness that had nagged at him since Vicky’s call last night. “Let her be safe,” he prayed silently, his eyes on the ball shooting past the pitcher’s mound out into center field. Randy was skidding sideways, and then he had it. His face stretched into a wide grin.

  Father John gave him a thumbs-up. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bulky figure of Matt Slinger walking down the third-base line: the rumpled slacks and open sport coat, the dark tie skewed sideways over the white shirt. The man’s shoulders curved forward in determination.

  He’d been half expecting the detective since he’d read the headline in this morning’s Gazette: PRIEST DISPUTES SUICIDE. He flashed a signal to Eldon behind the plate that he needed a few minutes, then walked toward the detective.

  “Hope this is important,” he said, closing the distance between them. “We’ve got a practice going on.”

  Slinger planted his boots a couple of feet apart in the soft earth. His hands hung at his sides like baseball gloves. In one glove hand was a rolled-up copy of the newspaper. “You got some information about Duncan Grover’s death, you come to me, Father O’Malley, not some newspaper reporter.” He waved the newspaper between them like a baton.

  “I told you I don’t believe Grover committed suicide.”

  “Yeah? How come you didn’t tell me about your so-called source?” The man stepped closer. Little specks of perspiration blossomed on his forehead. “I need names, O’Malley.”

  Father John was quiet a moment. He had two sources: the man in the confessional and a scared Indian girl who would probably deny everything she’d told him. And now he had Vicky.

  “Check the Denver Indian Center, Detective,” he said. “Last month Grover beat up a Pueblo Indian named Eddie. I think Eddie’s still around.”

  “You think—”

  Father John put up one hand. “Trust me, Slinger. He drives a brown pickup with out-of-state license plates. Bring him in. See if he has an alibi for the day Grover was killed.”

  The detective took a couple steps backward. His j
aw moved silently a moment before he said, “I’m onto you, Father O’Malley. You conned the Gazette into running this bullshit that makes the department look bad, like we brushed off the death of an Indian. Well, you outsmarted yourself. If you’re right, Grover’s killer might decide you know too much. He could show up here. What’re you gonna do? I don’t see any guards around here.” His head revolved in a half arc, then he went on: “I got half a mind to charge you with interfering in an investigation.”

  “What investigation? You told me the case was closed.”

  The jaw was working again, lips moving in and out like those of a fish after bait. “Maybe, maybe not.” He blew out a puff of air. “We found some tire tracks in the brush a good four miles on the other side of the valley from Bear Lake. We’re trying to get an explanation for vehicles being in the area.”

  In his mind, Father John could still see the flash of movement across the valley. He said, “Grover might have seen something he shouldn’t have.”

  “You have a way of jumping to conclusions.”

  “But it’s reasonable.”

  “Reasonable?” The detective gave a bark of laughter. “Sure it’s reasonable. It’s valuable land. Petroglyphs all over the place. Some of them on boulders anybody could haul away.” He slapped the newspaper against one thigh. “This is our business, Father. I’m ordering you to stay out of it.”

  The agent whirled his massive frame about and cut across the field at a surprising clip to the white 4X4 in Circle Drive.

  Father John retraced his steps along the third-base line. The detective could be onto something. Grover could have seen someone removing a petroglyph, and someone climbed to the ledge and hurled him off to keep him from reporting the theft. Maybe Eddie had nothing to do with it.

  “Hey, Father, you see that hit?” A kid’s voice broke into his thoughts.

  He glanced over in time to see the hitter slide into second base. “Safe,” Eldon called, moving his hands back and forth. The next kid was up.

  Okay. If Eddie had nothing to do with Grover’s death—his mind still searching for the logic—then why had Eddie come here? Why was he still hanging around? Why was Ali Burris deathly afraid of him?