The Thunder Keeper

by Margaret Coel

  There was the whack, followed by the sounds of a ball whistling overhead. He stood motionless, watching the outfielders running back. What had he been thinking? Trying to draw a killer to the mission—with the kids here? Slinger was right. Where were his guards?

  He checked his Timex. Practice wouldn’t end for another twenty minutes, but he had to get the kids out of here now. The rides would start arriving soon. A couple of pickups were already parked in front of the administration building.

  “That’s all for today,” he called, clapping his hands to get everybody’s attention. “Good practice, boys.”

  It took ten minutes to load the bats and balls and gloves into the canvas bags, another five minutes for him and Eldon to usher the kids—shouting, darting about—to Circle Drive. Three boys took off, struggling with the bulky equipment bags. Two other pickups had turned into the mission.

  He managed to get the kids into a tight circle. “Listen up,” he said. “No more practices for a couple days.”

  “How come, Father?” A chorus of disappointment. He caught Eldon’s eye. The man knew. He’d read the Gazette, he’d seen the detective.

  “We’ll start again in a few days,” he said. He hoped that was true. “Stay right here until your folks show up. Got it?”

  They blinked up at him, surprise and worry mingling in the dark faces.

  “See that they stay together,” he said to Eldon, then he hurried across Circle Drive and down the alley next to the administration building after the boys hauling the equipment bags.

  He found them in front of the storage shed behind Eagle Hall, one boy jiggling the padlock. The door swung open, and he helped them load the bags inside. He told them they were going to have to cancel practice for a while.

  “Aw, Father,” they said in unison.

  Just for a while, he explained. They’d be back in a day or two. Everything was fine. He didn’t want them to worry. They were looking good this season.

  They had already started down the alley, sneakers scratching the gravel, disappointment outlined in the slopes of their shoulders, when he turned back and snapped the padlock. It was then he saw the glint of a bumper nudged into the small space between the administration building and Eagle Hall. He moved around the shed to get a better view of the brown pickup almost completely invisible in the brush. Eddie was here.

  The blood pounded in his ears as he ran back down the alley to Circle Drive. Three kids left: Josh and Enos Russet and Eldon’s son, swinging on the metal handrail on the church steps, Eldon standing guard a foot away, arms folded over his chest.

  “Where’s your ride?” he said to the brothers.

  “Dad’s comin’ after work.” They stopped swinging and looked at him, as if to ask permission. Cowls of black hair stood up on their heads like feathered headdresses.

  “Come on, boys,” Eldon said. “Joseph and I are taking you home.” He started toward the truck on the other side of Circle Drive, then glanced back. “You gonna be okay, Father?”

  “Just get the kids out of here,” he said.

  “I mean, anything comes up, you call me. I can get a bunch of warriors over here real fast.”

  He thanked the Indian and waited until the truck had lurched through a U-turn and headed onto the straightaway out to Seventeen Mile Road, three dark heads bobbing in the rear window. Then he started toward the administration building. Eddie would be there—the most logical place.

  The corridor was quiet, a mosaic of shadows and light. There was no one around.

  He walked into his office on the right and hit the wall switch. Light burst over the small space. Everything the same, just as he’d left it two hours ago: the desk stacked high with papers and messages, the outlines of his own body pressed into the surface of the old leather chair, the two visitor chairs sitting at right angles to the desk.

  He turned back to the corridor. “Come out,” he called. “I know you’re here.”

  23

  Father John could hear the sound of his own breathing over the drip-drip of a leaky faucet in the bathroom down the hall that bisected the corridor. He stood motionless, watching the shadows that clung to the walls. Finally: the almost imperceptible creak of a floorboard and a slight figure stepping out of a doorway. Shuffling down the corridor, hugging the shadows.

  “I know who you are, Eddie,” Father John said.

  The man stopped. He was only a few feet away, and Father John could see him clearly—dark, flat face and broad nostrils of a Pueblo Indian; black hair slicked back behind ears that stood away from his head; pinched, worried expression. He was about five-feet-eight with narrow shoulders and thin arms that dangled at his side. The collar of his jeans jacket stood out from his scrawny neck.

  “I gotta talk to you, Father.” His voice was high-pitched, strained and unfamiliar. Not the voice in the confessional.

  Father John motioned the Indian into his office. He moved slowly through the door, lifting and placing each foot as if he were testing the solidity of the floor beneath him. Then he stopped, looking around at the desk and chairs, the crowded bookshelves. His black ponytail hung down the back of his jeans jacket like a lone feather in a headpiece.

  “Have a seat, Eddie,” Father John said, knowing that the Indian would not sit down until he’d been invited.

  “How d’ya know my name?” The Indian sank onto one of the chairs, a kind of gratitude in the droop of his narrow shoulders.

  Father John walked over and sat down at the desk. “I heard about the fight at the Denver Indian Center.”

  “Them sources of yours.” For the first time the mask on the brown face seemed to slip, giving way to a look of terror.

  “What’s your last name?”

  “Ortiz.”

  “You’re from a Pueblo?”

  “Yeah. Born in Santa Clara longer ago than I can remember.”

  Sad, Father John thought, if it was true, and it was probably true. The man hadn’t seen forty yet.

  “They’re gonna kill me, Father.” The Indian shifted forward, fingers wrapping around the armrests. “I gotta get back to Santa Clara.”

  “Hold on.” Father John held up one hand. “Who’s going to kill you?”

  “Same whites that killed Duncan. Buck Wentworth and Jimmie Delaney. They come up here looking to get a piece of Duncan and me ’cause we ripped off some tools.” Eddie spoke so quietly Father John had to lean forward to catch the words.

  “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You and Grover both came to the res to hide out?”

  “No, that ain’t it, Father.” The Indian was shaking his head. “Grover come first. We had a deal, me and him. I was the one took the risk getting the tools off the construction site. Wasn’t easy, let me tell you. There was Wentworth—he’s the meanest sonovabitch I ever seen—always watching. Wears those fancy sport coats. Always got on sunglasses. Then there was Delaney, taking orders, doing whatever the boss says. Crazy, both of ’em. And the big boss in Denver that’s giving them orders, he’s craziest of all. I seen Wentworth beat up a guy at the site after word come down from the big boss. Delaney helpin’ out. Beat the guy with a bat till there was blood coming out of his ears ’cause they found a diamond in his boots.” The man seemed to be looking at an invisible image.

  “Wait a minute,” Father John said. “The construction site was a diamond mine?” This was the second time somebody had mentioned diamonds in the last twenty-four hours. Vicky, last night. Now Eddie. Before that—he couldn’t remember the last time. Diamonds belonged to a world he no longer inhabited, a world as alien and irrelevant as the possible life-forms in outer space.

  An exasperated look came into the Indian’s face. “We was dismantling a couple buildings at the mine.” He glanced away. “We weren’t fool enough to try making off with diamonds. Just tools laying around. Grover knew how to sell ’em for some beautiful cash. Trouble was . . .” He stopped and cleared his throat. There was the ragged sound of phlegm being rearranged.

 
“The bastard never give me my share.”

  “That’s what the fight was about at the Indian Center?”

  The Indian nodded. “I tell him, where’s my money, man? He was drunk, and he got wild when he was drunk. Tore into me. Some guys had to pull him off, but I says, this ain’t over, Grover, you can bet your sorry ass on it.”

  Father John was quiet a moment. “So you called the police?”

  A look of astonishment flashed in the Indian’s face. “I ain’t having nothing to do with the police. Just an anonymous phone call to Wentworth. I figured him and Delaney was gonna hurt Grover a lot more than me. I never figured Wentworth was good for callin’ in the police.”

  He gave a little shrug of resignation—you could never figure everything—and went on. “Grover takes off with what he owes me. But I knew his girlfriend moved up to the res, so I figured I’d find him here. Seen her first at the convenience store. Then Grover showed up. Before I could settle with him, he disappears again. Then I seen the newspaper about him killing himself.” He shook his head and glanced about the office. “What a load of shit!”

  “You don’t believe it?” Father John said after a moment.

  “Wentworth and Delaney got him, Father.” The voice was low again, almost confessional. “Threw him off the cliff.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  The Indian’s eyes widened in astonishment. “ ’Cause I seen Wentworth’s white SUV in Lander last week. I was comin’ out of the motel when it went by. Man, I ducked back inside fast and waited. I figured they paid Grover back for taking the equipment, now they was hanging around lookin’ for me. They’re still here, Father. I seen ’em yesterday.” He shot a furtive glance toward the corridor, as if the spirits of the two men might be hovering there.

  “Look, Eddie.” Father John leaned over the desk. “You have to tell Detective Slinger.” Father John knew what the man would say even before he said it. No way. He wasn’t going to the police. He’d heard it a hundred times in counseling sessions, in the confessional.

  The Indian was shaking his head. “That detective’ll find out about the fight down in Denver and think I’m the one that went up to Bear Lake and pushed Grover off the cliff. Then he’s gonna check around and find out I got a couple warrants out in Colorado, and some judge’s gonna put me in jail and lose the key.”

  A new earnestness furrowed the man’s wide forehead. “Soon’s I seen the article this morning, I says to myself, the priest knows what happened to Grover. Wasn’t no suicide. It was murder. You tell the detective what I said, Father. He’s gonna believe you.”

  “You have two choices, Eddie,” Father John said after a moment. “You can go with me to see Slinger, or you can keep running from Wentworth and Delaney.”

  The Indian regarded him. “I got another choice. You loan me some gas money, and I’m outta here. Soon’s I get back to Santa Clara, I’m gonna be just fine. I’ll pay you back,” he hurried on. “I ain’t like Grover, keeping what don’t belong to me.”

  “You said you took the tools.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” He bit his lower lip. “Who cares? They got lots of money. They run a diamond company.”

  Father John got slowly to his feet, his gaze locked on the Indian. Vicky had said that the man killed in Denver had worked for a diamond mining company. The name? What was the name? Baider Industries.

  “What about it, Father?” The Indian’s voice cut through his thoughts.

  “What’s the name of the mining company?” he said.

  The Indian shrugged. “Kimberly Mining. Can you let me have a couple hundred bucks?”

  “Who owns it?”

  “How do I know?”

  “Where is it, Eddie?” Father John pushed on.

  “What difference does it make?” There was a barely controlled exasperation in the man’s voice. “On the Colorado–Wyoming border. Real big operation until last month when it played out and closed down.” He shrugged. “That’s why we was dismantling the buildings.”

  “Tell me something, Eddie. Is there any chance Wentworth and Delaney came here to look for a diamond deposit?”

  The Indian jumped to his feet. “You don’t get it, Father. They was out for revenge, ’cause we made ’em look real stupid, lifting the tools out from under their long white noses. They killed Grover, now I’m numero uno on the murder list. You gotta help me get outta here, Father.”

  “Here’s the deal.” Father John walked around and faced the man. “You go with me to see Detective Slinger, and I’ll give you the gas money.” He had a twenty-dollar bill and a couple of coins in his pocket. He had no idea where he’d get the rest of it.

  The Indian didn’t blink. “You’re as tough as those other white guys,” he said, turning toward the door.

  “Wait,” Father John said.

  The Indian glanced around, a wary look creeping into his expression.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Thunderbird,” the man said finally.

  Father John could picture the place—a remnant from the fifties, seedy and run down.

  “Where all the rich folks stay.” Eddie hunched his thin shoulders and ducked past the door. There was the sound of the front door opening. “Thanks for nothing,” the high-pitched voice called before the door slammed shut.

  Father John sat back down and, rustling through a pile of papers, pulled a yellow pad free. He found a pencil and wrote Kimberly Mining Company on one side of the page. Beneath that, a list of names: Eddie Ortiz,Wentworth, Delaney, and Grover. He underlined Grover. Next to the name, he put murdered.

  He started another column, with Baider Industries at the top, then: Vince Lewis, wife. Two more slashes and murdered after each name. He drew a line connecting the two lists and wrote: diamonds.

  He stared at the scribbled words and tried to recall what Vicky had said about Vince Lewis: the man had wanted to give her some information about the reservation. A new idea began moving like a shadow at the edge of his mind. Maybe Wentworth and Delaney weren’t looking for a couple of small-time thieves like Grover and Ortiz. Maybe they’d come to look for diamonds at Bear Lake, and Grover had spotted them and figured out what they were doing. Or maybe they thought Grover knew about the diamonds and had followed them intent on finding out what they were up to.

  He pitched himself to his feet and went to the window. The mountains rose jagged and blue in the orange-tinged dusk. Northwest of the res, where the mountains dropped into a gully that allowed the sky to flow through, was Bear Lake. There was only one thing wrong with this new idea. Vicky said the diamonds were on the reservation. Bear Lake was a good forty miles away.

  There was another problem: he had no proof that the two companies were connected. There could be a number of diamond mining companies in Denver.

  He went back to the desk and started to pick up the phone, then hesitated. Last night Vicky had called him. He’d resolved not to call her. It was a resolve he wanted to keep. And yet . . . There’s gonna be more murders. The words in the confessional hammered in his head.

  He lifted the phone and dialed her number. When the answering machine came on, he left a short message. Could she find out if there was any connection between Baider Industries and the Kimberly Mining Company and get back to him?

  He stared at the phone after he’d hung up, wondering if he’d seized upon an excuse to get in touch with her, assuage his own concern—he’d been worrying about her since she’d called—then shrugged off the notion. If there was a connection between the companies, he’d have the first piece of hard evidence for Slinger, evidence that could explain the tire tracks the detective had already found at Bear Lake.

  It was making sense, he thought, the pieces dropping into place, forming a clear image. Except . . . he had no evidence of any diamond deposits in this part of the state.

  Tomorrow, he decided, after he was interviewed for the lawsuit, he’d stop by the Riverton Library and see what he could find on diamonds.

 
24

  “They’re ready for you, Father O’Malley.” The middle-aged secretary with the pinched, pale face and cropped blond hair hung up the phone that had rung a moment earlier. “Please come with me.” She rose from behind a massive desk and walked over to the door across the reception area at Blackford and Lord.

  Father John tossed aside a magazine, picked up his cowboy hat, and followed her down a wide corridor. She moved with authority, shoulders squared, as if she were leading a parade.

  She stopped, rapped on a door, then pushed it open and motioned him into a rectangular room with an oak conference table running almost the full length. Three men sat at the far end. Arranged on the table were stacks of folders and yellow legal pads.

  All three rose to their feet. “Nice to see you again, Father O’Malley.” The man in the blue sport coat reached across the table and shook his hand. “Ian Blackford,” he said. Father John had met him once or twice—he couldn’t think where. The lawyer in a plaid shirt extended his hand and said he was Mike Lord.

  “Meet Perry Hamilton from Chicago.” He turned toward the man at the end. “We’re providing support from the local angle, but Perry’s calling the shots on the defense.”

  Hamilton had a grip like a steel vise, and Father John wondered what he’d be like in a courtroom, this lawyer the Society of Jesus had hired to represent Father Don Ryan.

  He took the chair Mike Lord had indicated and laid his hat on the table. The lawyers sat down in unison, like a precision drill team.

  “Well, Father O’Malley.” Perry Hamilton laced his fingers together over the yellow legal pad. “Let me begin by allaying any worries you may have. You can be assured that the Society intends to mount a vigorous defense on behalf of Father Ryan.”

  “What about a fair settlement?” Father John said.

  “Excuse me?” Hamilton’s features rearranged themselves into a look of mock astonishment. “Do you have any idea, Father, how many lawsuits are filed against clergy?”