The Ghost Walker

by Margaret Coel

  “You’re early for lunch,” Loretta called as he walked to the counter. She was probably in her forties, but she looked older, with dark, sun-blotched skin and gray hair pulled into a knob at the base of her neck. She wore a light blue dress that hung loosely from her shoulders and flowed around her like a nightgown.

  Suddenly she set the long metal spoon on the counter and came toward him. “Heard about that body.”

  It was a statement, not a question. Until the body received a proper burial, it would be on everyone’s mind—the lost spirit wandering the earth, trying to find the afterworld.

  “I seen it last night,” she said.

  “The body?” For a moment, he wondered if it had been found and he hadn’t heard.

  “The ghost.” Loretta smoothed back a strand of gray hair that had fallen across her forehead. “It was out in the field back of my house. I heard it in the middle of the night, wailing like the wind. I looked out, and there it was, like a dust devil gettin’ madder and madder. The police don’t find the body pretty soon, no tellin’ what that ghost’s gonna do. The Day of the Death’s gonna go too long.”

  Father John nodded. She meant the time the spirit spent on the earth after death, before it was sent to the afterworld. It was similar to his idea of purgatory, except the Arapahos believed the Day of the Death ended on the third day, when the body was buried. It had been almost two days now since he saw the corpse.

  “Chief Banner’s trying to find the body,” Father John said, wondering how to bring up the fact that Marcus Deppert seemed to be missing. He didn’t want to alarm her by suggesting the lost, half-mad ghost she was convinced she’d seen was Marcus. It was bad enough for a ghost to be anonymous. Its fate would seem even more terrible if it acquired a name.

  “Where can I find Rich?” Father John asked.

  The atmosphere seemed to change between them, as if someone had opened a door and let in a blast of cold air. Loretta pulled herself upright, squaring her shoulders and gazing steadily at him. “Rich is on the good road now. He hasn’t been in no trouble for a long time, I don’t care what nobody says.”

  “I’m looking for Marcus Deppert, and I was hoping Rich could help me find him.” Father John kept his tone reassuring.

  Loretta’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Only time Rich ever got into trouble was with that no-good creep. He don’t see Marcus Deppert no more, he promised me.”

  “He might have an idea of his whereabouts.”

  “Father John, I’m telling you, Rich don’t have nothin’ to do with him. Rich’s doin’ good for himself now. The first money he made on his new job he brought straight to me. Five new hundred-dollar bills. He said, This is for you, Mom.’ That’s the kind of son Rich is.”

  “I know Rich is a good son,” Father John said. He meant he knew Loretta believed Rich was a good son. The only connection Rich ever had to work, as far as he knew, was three years ago when he and Marcus were peddling pot, an enterprise that earned them both a stay in Leavenworth. He wondered how Rich had come by five hundred dollars cash.

  “Sounds as if he has a good job,” Father John said. He was trolling carefully.

  “Darn right.” The woman’s tone was defiant, but he sensed she’d taken the bait. “He drives Jeeps down to Denver for rich people. They buy ’em here ’cause it’s cheaper. You know how rich people are. Money sticks to their hands, ’cause it’s the most important thing in the world to ’em. He’s drivin’ a Jeep right now. So how could he know anything about Marcus Deppert or Annie Chambeau or the rest of that lousy gang?”

  The girl’s name rang a bell. Banner had said the Lander police broke up a party Friday night at Annie Chambeau’s apartment. “Is she a friend of Rich’s?” he asked.

  Loretta laughed, a pinched, forced sound. “That breed’s nobody’s friend and everybody’s friend, you know what I mean? Says she’s Arapaho, but her daddy came from one of those traders in the Old Time. I hear she’s hangin’ around Marcus Deppert now. Birds of a feather.”

  Father John asked if she knew who Rich was working for, but she shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “All I know, it’s a real good job.”

  * * *

  Father John tried to sort through what Loretta had said as he walked back along Circle Drive. She may wish her son had broken with Marcus Deppert, but it looked as if the two young men had taken the same job. Chances were, they had both gone to Denver. But, then, why was there a half-packed suitcase in Marcus’s living room? And who had hired them to drive Jeeps to Denver? Maybe the girl who had thrown the party, and who seemed to know both Marcus and Rich, would have some answers. He decided to swing by the Grand Apartments in Lander this afternoon.

  But first he intended to pay an unannounced visit to Eden Lightfoot, the economic development director.

  10

  The afternoon sun slanted across the red bricks of the Arapaho tribal headquarters at Ethete as Father John nosed the Toyota into the parking lot. He climbed out of the cab and crossed the snow-patched sidewalk in a couple of steps. Large black letters on the glass door spelled the Arapaho word Ne:hi:3ei, the Center.

  A young woman with thick black hair that flowed like a shawl over her shoulders looked up from the desk in the lobby. “Well, hi, Father,” she said, pedaling her chair back a few inches, as if to welcome a conversation.

  “Is Eden Lightfoot in?” Father John asked. Odors of perfume and stale coffee permeated the air. The building was designed in a V shape, with the offices of the business councilmen down one corridor and tribal offices down the other. From somewhere came the muffled sound of a ringing telephone.

  “I’ll tell him you’re here.” The young woman pedaled back to the desk, picked up the phone, and punched in a couple of numbers. “Father O’Malley to see you,” she said. There was a long pause, confusion and surprise mingling on her face. Then, “I’ll tell him.”

  Cradling the receiver, embarrassment in her eyes, she said, “I’m sorry, Father. Mr. Lightfoot is tied up. He suggests you make an appointment for later.”

  “Where will I find him?”

  “Third door.” The woman nodded toward the left corridor. “Only don’t tell him I . . .”

  Father John started down the corridor. Light from the intermittent ceiling fixtures bounced off the beige walls and scattered over the green tile floor. He paused at the door with the small lettered sign reading ECONOMIC DEVELOPMENT DIRECTOR. Tapping on the door and opening it at the same time, he called, “Eden Lightfoot?”

  A stocky man—probably Cheyenne, judging by the broad, flat face—not more than thirty, rose slowly from the chair behind the oak desk. He was short, with a barrel chest and wide shoulders that seemed to support his head without benefit of a neck. He was wearing blue jeans and a light blue, silky-looking shirt with a black leather bolo tie clasped in silver. The surprise on his face gave way to something resembling confusion—a slip, perhaps. Recovering quickly, he lifted a pudgy hand and combed the fingers through his dark hair. “This isn’t the best time, Father O’Malley.”

  “What is the ‘best time’ to discuss closing St. Francis Mission?” Father John said, shutting the door behind him. The director stood in front of a wide window that framed a view of the snow-packed plains. Light glimmered off the top of the polished desk, which held a telephone, computer keyboard, and monitor. A series of sleek, black-framed documents decorated the wall on the right. In the center was an oblong degree with the director’s name sandwiched between the words “Harvard University” and “Masters of Business Administration.” A large multicolored map of Wind River Reservation sprawled across the opposite wall.

  Eden Lightfoot resumed his seat and began tapping the palm of one hand against the desk. It made a flat, hollow sound. “We have every intention of discussing the matter with you as soon as the plans become definite. This is very premature.”

  “We?”

  The director shifted his bulky frame. His hand went still. “The Z Group has created the opportunity of a lifeti
me. Any Indian reservation in the country would jump at it. Surely you can understand the importance of new jobs on the reservation.”

  The room felt stuffy and hot. There was the soft swish of air emanating from a vent somewhere. “What I don’t understand,” Father John said, “is why the Z Group wants to close a mission that has been part of the Arapaho community since the last century.”

  Leaning back in the brown leather chair, Eden Lightfoot said, “You’re speaking of the past. Your own people have taught me the past is dead. We must live in the present and position ourselves to move into the future. Surely you can understand an enterprise that is no longer profitable must give way . . .”

  “Profitable? A mission?”

  “Perhaps the better word is productive.”

  “St. Francis is productive.”

  The director began tapping again. In a good imitation of a Harvard accent, he said, “We are speaking of economic considerations, are we not? The mission happens to lie at the edge of the reservation, close to major thoroughfares. It is the best location to attract large numbers of outsiders without the disruption of bringing them into the heart of our country.”

  Father John stepped over to the wall map. Sunlight washed out the tiny black letters of the northern Shoshone lands: Crow Heart and Burris and Pavillion, Bushwhacker and Wild Licorice Road. He waved one hand in the sunlight. “Somewhere up north would be better. Tourists could stop on their way to Yellowstone Park.” He moved his hand to the southern part of the reservation, near the Popo Agie River and Highway 287. “Even better. Closer to the people in southern Wyoming and Colorado.”

  “We don’t agree on the best location,” the director said.

  “What about the Arapahos and the Shoshones? Will they agree when you get around to telling them?” It rankled Father John that the plans had been made in secret, that the mission would be sold before anyone realized what was going on.

  “The matter will be presented to the Arapaho business council at next week’s meeting,” Eden Lightfoot said. “Make no mistake, Father O’Malley, it will be approved. And since the site is located in the Arapaho part of the reservation, the Shoshone council will rubber stamp the approval.”

  Father John walked over to the door and laid one hand on the knob. Turning toward the director, he said, “The general council will make the final decision.” It was a bluff. There was no guarantee the Arapaho elders would call a general council, but at the back of his mind was something Thomas Spotted Horse, one of the four holy men, had once told him: The Hinono eino rule themselves. No matter what the business council decided, the elders might summon the people, just as in the Old Time, when the people had traveled across the plains to come together and decide the best road to follow.

  The director got to his feet. A blood vessel pulsated in the center of his forehead. “Ridiculous,” he said, sprinkling little dots of saliva over the desk top. “The business council has been elected to make economic decisions based on the advice and expertise of professionals. This is not a matter for a general council and the maunderings of traditional old men. I’d advise you not to attempt to involve the elders.”

  Father John let himself out of the claustrophobic office and retraced his steps down the hallway. The receptionist glanced up, an expectant look about her, as if she’d been waiting to hear how the meeting went. Ignoring her, he strode out the front door and got into the Toyota. The pickup shot across the parking lot and out onto Ethete Road.

  Even if a general council were called, he was thinking, there was a chance the people would vote for the recreation center and the promise of jobs. In that case, he would have to pack his bags and move on to another assignment, wherever that might be. He didn’t want to think about it. He wanted to believe the Arapahos would vote for the mission, if they had the choice.

  Eden Lightfoot obviously thought so. It was obvious the director didn’t want a general council. But that depended upon the elders. Father John resolved to swing by Thomas Spotted Horse’s ranch the first chance he got.

  11

  The Toyota shuddered through the icy slush that lay over the streets of Lander. The Grand Apartments, two piles of yellow bricks, three stories high, straddled a half block at the northern edge of town. A narrow alley ran between the buildings, while a small convenience store had been jammed against one corner. Sometime during the fifties, with uranium and iron ore mines at full blast, the Grand Apartments had sheltered mining engineers and their families, middle-class, white. Now they were home to white and Indian alike, old and young, most on welfare.

  Father John wheeled the Toyota close to the curb and walked up the sidewalk. Jagged cracks of cement popped through the hard-packed snow. He had been here many times—to talk somebody into entering alcohol rehab, to visit the parents of a teenaged boy killed in a car crash, to try to convince some high school kid to stay in school. The people at the Grand Apartments were struggling.

  The front door, gray and flimsy-looking, stood slightly ajar, its hinges loose. Inside the small entry was another door, propped open with a cement block. A tangle of wires poked from the stucco wall. Sometime in its history, the Grand Apartments had boasted an intercom.

  He stepped around the cement block. The hallway was seedier than he remembered, with its trail of crumpled paper, fast food containers, and cigarette butts. A stairway hugged the wall on the right, while several doors marched down the left wall. He knocked at the first door. It opened slightly, and a shadow moved fleetingly past the crack. Then the door slammed shut. He knocked again and waited, but it was obvious the person behind the door had no intention of opening it again. Glancing down the dim hall, he counted eight doors. Assuming the same number on each floor in two buildings, Annie Chambeau might live in any one of forty-eight apartments.

  He sighed and started down the hall. Before he reached the next door, he heard the scratching sound of the first door’s knob turning.

  “Who are you?” It sounded like an elderly woman.

  “Father O’Malley from St. Francis Mission,” he said, retracing his steps. The door stood open about three inches, the length of the guard chain. A small, white-haired woman in a print dress peered at him, blue eyes watery and outsized behind her bottle-thick glasses. Arthritic fingers gripped the door edge.

  “I heard of you,” the old woman said. “You that Indian priest. Why’d you come here?”

  “I’m looking for Annie Chambeau. Can you tell me where she lives?”

  The old woman leaned into the crack. “I’m a respectable widow,” she began. Father John waited. Old people liked to work up to the point, clarify matters before confiding relevant information. “When I first come here,” she was saying, “this was a good place. Then those people come, and the place went to rack and ruin. Loud parties, drinkin’, fightin’ all the time. I don’t go outdoors no more, except to get groceries. I don’t never open my door.”

  Curiosity probably compelled her to open the door often, Father John thought. Still, he could sense the old woman’s fear. It was real. He reminded her about Annie Chambeau.

  “You tell those people to go back to the reservation where they belong, will ya, Father?” she said. “You tell ’em they should keep with their own. Maybe they’ll listen to you.” She drew herself up and peered at him a moment. “Three-F,” she announced. “You can take the front stairs.”

  He thanked her and started up the stairs. Before he’d gone halfway, she called, “Be careful, Father.”

  The floors grew progressively dimmer as he ascended, and the third floor was almost pitch dark. Light bulbs dangled from cords along the ceiling, but none was lit. Gray daylight filtered through a dirty window at the far end of the hall. Father John stopped at the door with the little strip of metal and two screws in the center, all that was left of the letter F. He rapped a couple of times.

  There was a scuffing noise inside, followed by a thump, as if a chair had fallen onto a hard floor. He knocked again, the old woman’s warning echoing in
his ears. Another scuffing noise, then the wham of a door slamming. The front stairs. The old woman had told him to take the front stairs. Somebody—Annie, most likely—had just gone down the back.

  Father John ran to the far end of the hallway and tried a door that probably led to the back stairway. It was locked. He sprinted back the way he’d come and descended the front stairs two at a time. The old woman peered through the crack in her opened door as he passed. Outside he cut across the snowy yard and turned into the narrow alley, which lay in shadow, the air washed with ice.

  A young woman was coming toward him, pulling a red coat around one shoulder, jabbing her arm into the sleeve. She looked up. A mixture of shock and fear crossed her face. Suddenly she pivoted around and stumbled, reaching out against the brick wall to catch herself. Then she took off running.

  “Annie, wait,” Father John called, but she had already disappeared around the building. By the time he emerged from the alley, she had crossed the snow-packed space in back and was attempting to pull herself up a solid wood fence, her red coat dangling off one arm.

  Father John stopped about ten feet from her. “Don’t be afraid,” he said calmly.

  “Leave me alone,” she screamed, whirling around, like a cornered animal, eyes darting for some way out. Her breath came in jabs, as if she couldn’t catch it. She was shaking.

  He said, “I’m Father O’Malley from the reservation. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m looking for Marcus Deppert, and I thought maybe you could tell me where I might find him.”

  An expression of relief came into the young woman’s dark eyes. She swallowed hard and began tugging the coat around her thin shoulders while shoving an arm into the empty sleeve. He wanted to help her, but he kept his place. He didn’t want to frighten her again.