“Maybe he started to worry it wasn’t hidden well enough.”
Banner slowly shook his head. “The fed’s off to talk to an Indian girl and other sources he says he has, as if Indians are gonna tell a white FBI agent something important. We’ve got a gray Chevy pickup and a driver who maybe knows about the body, but most likely never heard of it. And we got a missing body. Ghosts, John. We’re chasin’ ghosts.”
5
The Toyota rolled down Old Wind River Highway on automatic pilot. Father John rested one gloved finger on the steering wheel’s rim. His thoughts were on the body, which had probably been dead close to twenty-four hours now, but no one had missed him, no one had called the police and said, “He hasn’t come home. I’m worried.” Nothing. What kind of life had he led to end up so alone?
The road veered sharply to the right, and Father John jammed on the brake pedal, fishtailing around the curve. The wind sent a cloud of snow across the road ahead. He gripped the wheel with both hands, holding it steady through the whiteness and out the far side into the daylight. Another half mile, and he turned into the driveway at Joe Deppert’s place.
An uneasy feeling came over him as he slid out of the cab. Mounds of untrampled snow lay over the driveway and banked against the logs piled beside the wood fence. The open door of a tin shed creaked in the wind. The gray frame house looked empty, with the indoor shades pulled halfway down the front windows.
The door swung open just as he was about to knock. In the shadows stood Deborah Deppert, somewhere in her eighties, with hooded black eyes and gray hair curled around her head like a helmet. He might have knocked at any house on the reservation and found an elderly women like her, in a printed housedress with an apron cinching her waist, socks rolled at her ankles, and swollen arthritic feet in pink bedroom slippers.
“Hello, Grandmother.” He used the Arapaho term of respect and remained in place outside. It was not polite to appear as if he even wished to enter the home until he had been invited to do so.
“Well, Father John.” There was a note of surprise in the old woman’s voice. “What you doin’ out in the cold? Come on in.”
He stepped into a small room with gray daylight filtering below the window shades. He waited as Deborah set the door closed behind him. The air smelled of wood smoke and some pungent medicinal odor, like camphor or analgesic. To the right was a double bed with a star quilt spread over the top. In the center of the room stood a round oak table and a couple of wood chairs, and beyond, an arched doorway that led to the kitchen.
To the left, Joe Deppert, swaddled in blankets, lay in one of two recliners that faced a black stove. Next to it sat a cardboard box with some kindling wood poking out of the top.
“How is Grandfather?” Father John whispered.
“Oh, he’s not asleep.” The old woman stepped over to the recliner and lightly thumped the pile of blankets. “We got company,” she said.
Joe opened his eyes. “Marcus?” His voice sounded soft and spongy.
“Father John, Grandfather. I stopped by to see how you’re doing.”
A bony hand came out from under the blankets, and Father John reached over and clasped it. It felt like a brittle bundle of twigs.
“We thought you was Marcus when we heard the truck drive up.” There was a mixture of disappointment and fear in his eyes.
Deborah patted the top of the other recliner. “Sit here, Father. You want some coffee, don’t you?”
The old woman sidled through the archway as Father John draped his parka over the back of one of the wood chairs and laid his gloves and cowboy hat on the table. Then he sat on the edge of the vacant recliner. The fire cast an uneven heat; the room was drafty and cold by the door, stifling as a sauna by the stove.
“How’re you feeling?” Father John asked the old man. Two weeks ago, the doctors had removed both of Joe’s big toes. Diabetes.
“Soon’s I get these clunkers off, I’ll be good as new.” Joe yanked at the blankets to display the plaster casts. “I gotta learn to walk with no toes. Easier’n walkin’ with no feet.”
Father John smiled at the old man’s courage. Joe knew that’s what they would amputate next. “Has Marcus been coming by to help you out?” The young Arapaho was Joe’s grand-nephew, the grandson of Joe’s brother. Arapaho families were too close for words like nephew and uncle. Besides, Joe and Deborah had raised Marcus from about age twelve, after his parents had died.
Glancing toward the kitchen, the Indian lowered his voice. “Marcus is real good to us. Chops the wood and hauls in the logs. Does the shoppin’. Only he ain’t come around all last week. I don’t know what become of him.”
“I can get in some logs,” Father John said, nodding toward the cardboard box. Another cold snap like last night, and Joe and Deborah could freeze to death in this flimsy house.
“No need to bother yourself.” Deborah padded slowly back into the room, balancing three coffee mugs on a plate. She handed one mug to Father John, another to her husband. Then she plopped down on the same wooden chair Father John had hung his parka on and took a sip from her mug. After a minute, she said, “Marcus’ll be by today for sure. He don’t forget us. You hear that, old man?” She scooted forward, staring at the back of Joe’s recliner. “Marcus ain’t the kind of boy that don’t respect his elders.”
Squaring herself against the chair again, as if the matter were settled, Deborah turned her eyes to Father John. “His new job he’s got drivin’ Jeeps to Denver takes a lot of time.”
Father John took a long pull of the lukewarm liquid. It had the taste of coffee brewed hours ago and warmed over several times. It worried him: two helpless old people, isolated in a drafty house two or three miles from the nearest neighbor. And where was Marcus? In a ditch somewhere? He shivered involuntarily. Is this what it was going to be like? Every time he heard of somebody missing an appointment, not coming around, was he going to jump to the conclusion that that was the body in the ditch?
He forced his thoughts back to what Deborah had said. Marcus had a job. Good news. Marcus Deppert was one of the kids he’d worried about, ever since the summer, a few years back, that Marcus had played left field for the Eagles—when he’d felt like showing up. Breezy and self-confident, that was Marcus. A little too smart in the wrong things. Since then, he’d spent three years in Leavenworth for dealing drugs. He was still on probation. Father John sat back in the recliner. “Who’s Marcus working for?”
“He ain’t said exactly.” Joe shifted a little in the recliner.
“Well, it’s a good job.” Deborah hoisted herself to her feet and collected the empty mugs before shuffling back into the kitchen.
The old man motioned Father John to come closer. “I’m real worried about the boy. So’s his grandmother, only she don’t wanna say so. I told her we should get the police, but she says no, ’cause of him bein’ on probation. Could you check on him? Make sure he ain’t in no trouble, Teenenoo Hiinooni’it?” He used the name one of the four holy old men had given Father John a few years before. It meant “Touch-the-Clouds” and symbolized the heart of his life, what he tried to do as a priest—reach toward the Great Mystery Above. The name was meant to remind him of his duty and to give him the strength to do his best.
“Yes, of course, Grandfather,” Father John said. No missing persons on the reservation lately, Banner had said, but who would report Marcus missing? Only these two old people, scared of the police looking into what he might be up to.
“Where is he living now?”
“Got himself a place over in Easter Egg Village. First yellow house on Buffalo Road.” The old man drew in a long breath and let it out slowly as if he were releasing a sharp pain.
“What else can I do, Grandfather?” Father John asked.
Joe reached out and grasped his hand lightly. “Don’t listen to what that old woman says. We need some more logs in here.”
Father John had on his parka, gloves, and cowboy hat and was out the door before Debora
h had reappeared in the living room. By the time he’d knocked the snow off the logs and loaded up an armful, the old woman stood against the door, holding it open, eyes watchful and resigned. He brought in a couple more loads, filling the cardboard box, then stacking logs next to it. He offered to get them some groceries, but they both assured him they had plenty of food, and he promised to stop by again in the next day or two.
As Father John let himself out the front door, he saw Deborah had moved close to her husband’s recliner, and the old man was patting her hand as if to reassure her everything would be all right.
* * *
Father John parked in front of the yellow house on Buffalo Road. The houses in Easter Egg Village clustered on top of a bluff, each small bungalow splashed in a different pastel color—pink, green, blue, yellow, violet. Some Washington bureaucrat’s notion of what subsidized houses on an Indian reservation ought to look like. The sun had begun its descent behind the mountains, shooting red and pink flames across the sky. A pinkish glaze fell over the houses and the snow-covered ground.
Father John got out of the Toyota and started toward the house. The temperature was spiraling downward. It felt twenty degrees colder than when he’d left the old people forty minutes ago. The snow in front had been stomped down, pushed into little piles. Somebody had been here recently. He knocked on the door. No answer. Then he stepped sideways and peered through the window. The living room had the stillness of space bereft of human energy. A yellow-and-brown-striped sofa and a small dark chair stood against one wall. On the opposite wall was a TV on a cart, and next to it an opened suitcase, half full. Marcus was either about to take a trip or he had just returned.
Father John headed back to the Toyota and drove two blocks to the pastel green house of Ike and Mary Yellow Calf. Ike was chopping wood out front, and as soon as Father John pulled up, the Indian set the ax against a pile of logs and came toward the pickup. Father John climbed out, and the Indian grabbed his hand, pumping it up and down with the same energy he’d probably put into chopping wood. He had on the kind of faded jeans, long-sleeved plaid shirt, and down vest most of the men on the reservation wore. His black Stetson sat back, revealing a line of even blacker hair. Little beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.
“I just stopped in to see Joe Deppert,” Father John said.
“Ah.” Ike dipped his forehead into one sleeve, brushing away the moisture. “Been meanin’ to get over there. How’s Grandfather doin’?”
“He and Deborah could use some help. They’re getting low on wood. Probably low on groceries, too, although they’re too proud to admit it. Marcus hasn’t been around lately.”
Ike cleared his throat, turned sideways, and spit onto the snow. “Don’t surprise me none. No damn good, that kid.”
Father John was surprised at the vehemence. “What do you mean?”
“Ever since he moved into the village, people been comin’ and goin’ all hours at his house. Parties all the time.”
“Deborah thinks Marcus found a job.”
Ike shook his head. “You know how it is with the grandmothers. They love the kids no matter what. They believe whatever the kids tell ’em.”
“Have you seen Marcus lately?”
The Indian’s forehead wrinkled into deep lines. “Matter of fact, it’s been quiet all week. Maybe him and that Rich Dolby he hangs with took their parties elsewhere.”
Father John jammed his hands into the pockets of his parka. He was thinking about what Banner had said: The Lander police broke up a party of Arapahos Friday night. Maybe Marcus was there, but it was a stretch. How many parties were there on any given night? Marcus Deppert couldn’t attend them all. Father John decided to talk to Rich Dolby’s mother, Loretta, who worked in the cafeteria at St. Francis Elementary School. Chances were she’d know the whereabouts of her son, and he might know the whereabouts of Marcus.
“Let me know if Marcus shows up,” he said, getting back into the Toyota.
Ike took the door and started to walk it closed, then paused. “Don’t worry about the old people. I’ll put the word out on the moccasin telegraph so folks’ll know to look in on ’em. Me and the wife gotta go into Fort Washakie tomorrow for groceries. We’ll get ’em a load of supplies.”
“You’re a good man, Ike,” Father John said. “Marcus’ll probably be along in a few days.”
“Wouldn’t count on nothin’ with that kid,” the Indian said, closing the door.
Father John swung the Toyota out of Easter Egg Village onto Seventeen-Mile Road and drove into the dusk. He wasn’t sure when the green truck behind him first came into his rearview mirror, but now he could see it coming up fast. He kept his own pace steady, giving the truck time to pass, if that’s what its driver wanted. There was no oncoming traffic, but the road was slick with snow and ice. The truck was close enough now so he could almost make out the driver. He—or she—wore aviator sunglasses, even though it was starting to get dark, and a knit hat pulled low over the forehead. Suddenly the truck was right behind him, looming in the rearview mirror, as if the driver intended to run him off the road.
6
Father John stomped on the accelerator, and the Toyota shot ahead, tires yawing in the snow. He gripped the wheel and hoped the pickup wouldn’t slide into the ditch on its own. The truck started gaining; he could see it was a Dodge. As he banked around a curve, an oncoming vehicle flashed into view and, as if in response, the truck dropped back. By the time a dark sedan lumbered by, the truck was a distant shadow.
Father John kept his speed steady, one eye on the rearview mirror. A drunk, he thought, getting his kicks from trying to run an old pickup off the road. He’d had a lot of experience with drunks. There were two types: quiet and rowdy. He’d been the quiet type, drinking himself into a stupor every night while grading papers on the Missouri Compromise, the Western expansion, the defining battles of the Civil War. Aviator glasses—that was the rowdy type.
Father John passed the sign for St. Francis Mission and slowed for the turn onto Circle Drive, one eye still on the rearview mirror. The road behind was dark. The truck must have turned off at Miller or Bejan Lane.
He stopped behind the white Cadillac in front of the administration building and stepped out into the hardening cold. A deep purple stain spread across the late afternoon sky, washing the snowy grounds in pale blue. He mounted the stairs and stamped his boots. The moment he stepped inside, the familiar, musty smell of the old building swept over him. Through the open door to his office partway down the hall came the low murmur of voices.
He stepped through the doorway. “Ah, the pastor himself in our midst,” said Father Peter, who occupied the metal folding chair reserved for the occasional overflow of visitors. His arms were folded across his flannel shirt; his head, with its ruff of white hair, rested squarely on his shoulders. The overhead light glinted in his blue eyes.
A couple of men Father John had never seen before rose from the Naugahyde side chairs across the office. One was Father John’s height, close to six feet four inches, with thick, neatly trimmed gray hair. Little blue lines crisscrossed his nose and cheeks, which had the telltale flush of too much alcohol in his past. Father John recognized the signs. The man’s eyes narrowed, as if he had only a nanosecond to size up the pastor of St. Francis Mission, and he meant to get an accurate measurement.
The other visitor stood almost a head shorter, with a narrow face and gray hair that receded from his forehead. Both men wore the same uniform—dark tailored suits, shiny white shirts, dark ties embellished with miniature figures. The short man came forward, extending a thin, sculptured hand. “Clifford Keating. With the bishop’s office in Cheyenne.”
Father John had expected a phone call, but here was the bishop’s representative in person to deliver whatever message he had delivered at last night’s meeting.
“Nick Sheldon,” the taller man said, extending his hand. “Sheldon, Jones and Johnson. Attorneys-at-law. We’ve been waiting over an hour.”<
br />
Father John was taken aback. “Did we have an appointment?”
“Yes. Last evening in Lander.”
“So we did.” He motioned the men to resume their seats. He took his time depositing his parka and hat on the rack behind the open door, where two dark topcoats already hung. As he took his own chair behind the desk, Father Peter shot him a look that said, “Beware of vultures.”
“Since you missed the meeting . . .” Clifford Keating began in a conciliatory tone.
“My pickup broke down,” Father John said. Last night’s meeting had slipped into the background, eclipsed by a missing corpse and by his worry over a young Arapaho who also seemed to be missing.
“Father Peter has explained,” said the bishop’s representative, shooting his suit sleeves over white cuffs. “We want to bring you up to date. The bishop called the meeting of pastors in Riverton and Lander. Naturally he wishes to satisfy himself that the spiritual needs of Catholics in the area will continue to be cared for. I’m happy to say we have that assurance.”
“Continue?” Father John picked up a pencil and began tapping a pile of paper on his desk. He’d missed something here.
“Of course. With one less parish, it is a concern.”
The picture began to take shape. The bishop intended to close one of the local parishes, probably for financial reasons, and Clifford Keating had been dispatched to make certain the other parishes could handle the overflow. The only thing still unclear was the role Nick Sheldon played.
“We’ll welcome anyone who wants to come to St. Francis,” Father John said. There would be few whites who would come. St. Francis was the Arapaho church.
A thick silence settled over the office, and Father John realized he hadn’t gotten the entire picture. Nick Sheldon crossed one leg over the other. “It seems you haven’t been informed, Father O’Malley. It’s St. Francis Mission that will be closed.”
The Ghost Walker Page 4
