“If not sooner,” Father John said, flipping through the rest of the stack. Another message caught his attention. “Thomas Spotted Horse came by?”
Father Peter stared at him, remembrance in his eyes. “We’re old friends, you know, so naturally I thought he’d come to see me. However, it was you he wanted to see. Disappointed you weren’t here. Thomas wonders if you might find time to stop out at the ranch tomorrow. You know the humble and polite way of the Arapahos. Never would he say it was urgent, but if he drove all the way over here in that old truck of his when he can hardly see through those thick glasses, well, I would suggest to you it is urgent.”
Father John set the message to one side. “Did Vicky Holden call?” There was nothing to indicate she had.
The old priest shook his head and stepped back into the corridor. Then he reappeared around the doorjamb. “You haven’t forgotten about the meetings tonight?”
“No,” Father John said, although he had.
“I intend to take the liturgy committee,” Father Peter said as he started down the corridor. The old floor creaked under his steps.
That left Father John with the two other meetings jotted on his calendar: the high school religious instruction committee and AA. He didn’t want to miss either. He saw himself darting between the meeting rooms at Eagle Hall, a juggler with two glass balls in the air, both of which would shatter if he didn’t do something to save St. Francis.
Sighing, he lifted the receiver and punched in Vicky’s office number. The secretary informed him crisply that Ms. Holden was out. She couldn’t say when she might return. She hoped it would be soon since the pile of work, the depositions, the clients were waiting. Father John broke off the conversation, wondering what it was about his voice that inspired these uninvited confidences. Pushing back the cuff of his flannel shirt, he checked his watch. He had a little more than two hours before the meetings got underway.
21
The elevator bell rang into the hospital silence. Father John stepped between the parting doors onto the third floor of the hospital. Light from the recessed ceiling fixtures gleamed on the turquoise vinyl floor, and odors of disinfectant and floor polish wafted toward him as he started down the corridor. From somewhere came the clanking sound of a dinner trolley, but no one was in sight. Even the nurses’ station ahead was empty. A couple of computer screens on the low counter blinked into the void.
The door across from the station opened, and Vicky slipped past. Keeping one hand on the knob, she closed the door silently behind her. She looked like a teenager in the bulky red sweater and blue jeans. Her black hair shone almost silver under the light. Surprise crossed her face as she turned toward Father John. “Susan’s sleeping,” she whispered.
“How is she?”
“She has some tough days ahead. If we hadn’t brought her in . . .” Vicky lowered her face into her hands, and for a moment he thought she was going to cry.
He stepped toward her and placed one hand on her shoulder to reassure her. “Susan’s going to be okay now,” he said.
Vicky looked up and stared at him a moment as if willing herself to believe what he had just said. Then she slipped one hand into the front pocket of her jeans and withdrew a folded piece of white paper. “Hoho’u h:3tone’3en,” she said, handing it to him. “I am thanking you.”
“What’s this?”
“I had some time while they got Susan settled in the room. I called my law school friend. That’s the unofficial version of why Eden Lightfoot left the Cheyenne Agency and is now conferring the Harvard method of economic development upon us. You are up against one smart Indian, educated in one of your best schools.”
Father John unfolded the paper. It was filled with lines of clear, precise penmanship, the kind some scholarly old Jesuit had insisted upon thirty years ago at the St. Francis school. “All t’s crossed and i’s dotted.” He slipped the paper past his parka and into his shirt pocket. He would study it later.
“As for the Z Group,”—Vicky gave her shoulders a little shrug—“zilch.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had Ginger call the California Secretary of State’s office. The Z Group is listed as an assumed name under which a partnership called the Paulson Company does business in California.”
“Who owns the Paulson Company?” Father John felt the sense of excitement of the researcher about to close in on a critical piece of information.
“That’s just it,” Vicky said. “The state has no record of any company with that name. End of paper trail.”
He leaned against the wall. Nothing but shadows, specters—ghosts—everywhere he turned. “How can that be?”
“A couple of reasons,” Vicky said, locked in her lawyer tone now. “The company may simply have failed to file the correct documents, or they could be lost in the computer. The clerk promised to check further and get back to us.”
“In the meantime, we know nothing about Nick Sheldon’s client.”
“Not true,” Vicky said. “We know it is a development company capable of building anywhere, simply by the fact it selected this area. We know the people have done their homework—drawn up all the graphs and charts, put all the numbers through a dance. They can probably project profits over the next couple of decades down to a few dollars. Profits are what count for them—we know that.”
Father John stared past her down the quiet corridor a moment. Enough profits, he wondered, to try to scare him away from interfering with their plans?
“More bad news, I’m afraid,” Vicky said after a moment. “I talked with two members of the business council. In the last couple of days, Eden Lightfoot has met personally with each member to explain the Z Group’s proposal. Lobbying, I’d call it. Anyway, the council is pretty excited about the recreation center. My friends say—” She stopped, worry in her eyes. “It looks like a go.”
Father John blew out a puff of air. She had confirmed his worst fears: a major development company with the financial resources, determination, and political savvy to put St. Francis out of business. It was bad news, all right, and he hadn’t yet gotten to the bad news he’d come to tell her. “Vicky,” he said, “there’s something else we have to talk about.”
* * *
They sat at a square table in the far corner of the hospital cafeteria under fluorescent bulbs that flooded the tables with a white light. Except for another couple, heads together whispering, at a table across the room, they were the only ones there. A muffled shout from the kitchen, the clank-clank sound of dishes, the swish of double steel doors opening and closing sounded through the almost empty space. It smelled of onions and chicken broth.
Father John crumpled some saltines into his bowl of chicken soup, the way his father had always done. Vicky was sipping at hers. The time was not yet right to talk. After a moment she set her spoon down. “Does this have to do with the white men at the ranch?”
“It’s possible.” Father John kept his eyes on hers. “A girl named Annie Chambeau, Marcus Deppert’s old girlfriend, was murdered last night.”
Vicky leaned back against the metal chair. “I overheard the emergency room nurses talking about a gun-shot victim.” She shook her head. “The poor girl. There aren’t many Chambeaus left. Just her grandmother. She was Maisie Birdsong. She married Alfred Chambeau, the grandson of Charles Chambeau, one of the French traders in the Old Time.” Vicky paused. “Sorry. You don’t want to hear another Arapaho genealogy.”
Father John smiled. Arapahos were connected through the years, through the generations, their identities woven by strong, invisible ties.
“What does the girl’s murder have to do with . . .” Vicky paused, as if she’d answered her own question. She looked stricken.
He hurried to remind her about the body in the ditch, Gary near Rendezvous Road. The white man who went to Annie Chambeau’s looking for Marcus. It could all be connected.
Vicky was shaking her head, and Father John saw the resistance in her eyes. His t
heory led to Susan, to the possibility Susan could be involved. How could she accept such a theory? “Do you know for a fact it was Gary who went to the girl’s apartment? Did she tell you? What proof is there Marcus Deppert has been murdered or that the body was his? What proof do you have of any connection between the body and the murdered girl?”
Silence filtered into the space between them. He had no proof. After a moment he said, “I hope I’m wrong. But if I’m right, you and Susan are in danger. Gary has already threatened you. When Susan is released tomorrow, you can take her to the guest house at St. Francis. I’ll leave the key under the rock by the front door and have Elena lay in some food—”
“John,” Vicky interrupted, impatience in her voice. “Gary didn’t want Susan to leave the ranch. Now it’s a moot point. She’s gone, and there’s nothing he can do about it. Besides, I’m hoping Susan is scared enough to agree to go into treatment tomorrow.”
Father John reached into his parka pocket and brought out his small spiral notebook and ballpoint pen. “One of my friends—a former Jesuit—runs a drug treatment center in Denver,” he said, scribbling on the paper. “This is his number.” He tore off the sheet and handed it to her. “It’s best you both leave the area until Banner can put together enough evidence to arrest Gary.”
“What?” Vicky let the sheet of paper flutter onto the table. “What are you saying? Have you already passed this bizarre theory on to Banner?”
He was surprised at the anger in her voice. “A girl has been murdered, Vicky. A young man is missing.”
The chair screeched against the floor as she got to her feet and leaned over the table toward him. “Oh, I concede these men are probably here to deal drugs. Maybe they’re involved in murder, I don’t know. And neither does Susan. She is not involved.”
Keeping his tone calm, rational, Father John said, “She may know something that could help the police.”
“No.” It was like a slap. “Don’t you understand how sick she is? She almost overdosed last night. She could have died. She can’t handle a police investigation right now.” Vicky straightened herself. “I thought you were on my side. I thought you cared about me and Susan, but obviously I was wrong,” she said, slamming the chair into the table and wheeling around.
He watched her cross the cafeteria, dodging the rows of empty tables and brushing past the doorway. He was still watching as she disappeared into the elevator. Then he got slowly to his feet, relieved to see she had taken the paper with the Denver number.
* * *
He drove north on Rendezvous Road through the silver glow of evening. It might snow again tonight; the air felt heavy. In his mind he replayed their conversation. Why hadn’t he seen the raw emotional space he had blundered into? He knew the force of her love for Susan—charged with guilt and regret and sadness. Why hadn’t he handled things differently? He had wanted to warn Vicky, to protect her, but somehow he had succeeded only in pushing her away. It had happened so easily he was shocked.
At least she had taken the note he’d scribbled. If she wouldn’t go to the guest house, maybe she would take Susan to Denver. As long as Gary was free they were in danger; he felt sure of it.
He glanced at his watch. The religious education meeting would be winding up soon, but the AA meeting would go on for a while. He would be late. It seemed to be a recurring theme in his life—missing appointments, showing up late—like the motif of an aria.
As he slowed the Toyota around Circle Drive, Father John saw the commotion in front of the priests’ residence. He pulled in beside two vans with CHANNEL 7 CHEYENNE emblazoned on the sides. What looked like a tripod stood on the sidewalk, spindly black legs under a gigantic spotlight. Snow fluttered into the white light. Father Peter, hands bunched in the pockets of his black coat, stood in the circle of light while two men trained boxlike cameras on him and a woman shoved a microphone in his face.
Father John swung out of the cab. Suddenly he was in the circle of light himself, a silvery object now waving in his face, a woman walking toward him. “Here’s the pastor now. Tell us, Father O’Malley, how does it feel to be the last pastor of St. Francis Mission?”
22
The woman moved closer, looking at Father John expectantly. She was bundled in a black fur coat, but her head was bare. She raised a gloved hand and brushed the snowflakes from her eyes and cheeks. Snow clung to her short blond hair. Father John recognized her as the anchorwoman on the ten o’clock news, where, he suspected, St. Francis Mission was about to become tonight’s lead story.
“No comment,” he said, hurrying past her up the sidewalk toward Father Peter. He took the old man’s arm and gently turned him toward the front steps.
“Is it true you oppose the creation of jobs on Wind River Reservation?” The voice was shrill as the anchorwoman saw her story about to disappear into the priests’ residence. “Father O’Malley, can you explain to our viewing audience why you would stand in the way of jobs for the Indians?”
He was in a surreal world, caught in blinding light with blackness beyond, searching his pockets for the front door key. Father Peter waited on the step below, a shadow at the edge of the light as Father John fingered the key and jammed it into the keyhole.
“Could it be you are only protecting your own job, Father O’Malley? Isn’t it true that, given your background, it would be difficult for your order, the Society of Jesus, to place you elsewhere?”
“That is an egregious calumny,” the old priest shouted.
Turning around, Father John saw the confusion and discomfort in the young woman’s face. She started to speak, faltered. “Could you explain for our viewing audience?”
“I’ll explain for you,” said Father Peter impatiently, as if reprimanding a particularly dim student. “It’s a damn lie.”
The young woman blinked. “I beg your pardon, Father, but—”
The old priest cut her off. “Father O’Malley is a highly trained historian. He would be in demand at any of the fine educational establishments the Society of Jesus operates. He would have his choice of positions as chief executive at any of the Society’s missions around the world. Choice of positions, young lady.”
“Isn’t it true Father O’Malley is an alcoholic?” Panic tinged the young woman’s voice.
Father John heard Father Peter draw in his breath, as he took the old man’s elbow again and ushered him to the top step. Then Father John turned back to the anchorwoman. “I am a recovering alcoholic,” he said.
The old priest jerked his arm away and squared his shoulders. “As are many of your colleagues, young lady. Perhaps some of your friends. Perhaps members of your family.”
The woman gasped. A stricken look came over her face as if she had been personally insulted and wasn’t sure how to respond. Gently and firmly Father John steered the old priest into the front hall and closed the door behind them. “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he said, helping Father Peter out of his long coat.
The sounds of car doors banging, metal clanking against metal, and engines turning over filtered inside as Father John hung the coat and his own parka on the rack. Then he followed the old man into the study and slumped into the worn leather chair behind his desk.
Father Peter had taken one of the blue wingback chairs on the other side. In a voice still trembling with emotion, he said, “We are up against street fighters, my boy.”
Father John smiled at him. He’d always felt he could fight his own battles, and it had been a long time since anyone had stepped up to the bat for him. “What questions did she ask before I got here?”
“Questions that beg the issue. A common tactic when one’s premise is fallacious.” Father Peter rested his head against the chair and closed his eyes a moment. There were moments when he seemed very ancient.
“And what did you tell her?”
“Macbeth. Act five, scene five. ‘Blow Wind! Come, wrack! At least we’ll die with harness on our back.’ The Bard never fails me.”
&
nbsp; “You quoted Shakespeare to them?” Father John threw his head back and laughed. The old man was beautiful. Then it hit him: All of Wyoming was about to get a good look at the priests of St. Francis Mission, one in his dotage, the other a selfish, alcoholic obstructionist.
A gurgling pipe somewhere, air swishing through a vent—the sounds floated through the silence in the house. Father John thought the old man had fallen asleep. Suddenly Father Peter’s head jerked forward, his eyes opened. He looked startled.
“I find it interesting,” Father John began, testing his own thoughts out loud. “The plan to sell the mission has been kept top secret. Not a word leaked onto the moccasin telegraph. Yet now it’s about to be announced on the ten o’clock news.”
“They have made the first strike, my boy, before you could develop any opposition. The Provincial also hopes to obtain your acquiescence by bringing public pressure to bear. Certainly he may sell the mission without your blessing, but it would look as if he were abandoning the people here. It would be what is known today as a public relations disaster.”
Father John swiveled around and stared out the window at the falling snow. Pale moonlight glinted on the glass. Clever, he thought. People across the state would support anything that promised jobs on the reservation. Even the Arapahos might choose jobs over St. Francis. He pulled the yellow paper out of his shirt pocket and unfolded it. The neat, precise handwriting gave him a start. They had still been friends, he and Vicky, when she’d gotten this information for him. The information was elliptical: Eden Lightfoot; Harvard MBA; brought four companies to Cheyenne Agency; rumors of commissions from companies; no proof, but left agency under cloud; investigation pending.
Father John laid the paper on the desk. It didn’t surprise him. He’d already guessed Nick Sheldon had the economic development director in his pocket. “Tomorrow I’ll drive out to see Thomas Spotted Horse,” he said.
“‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow . . .’” The old priest got to his feet. It was a kind of unfolding: First his head rose, then his back, then his legs. “Tonight we must attend our meetings.”
The Ghost Walker Page 13
