The Ghost Walker

by Margaret Coel

  Red Shirt tossed a coin.

  “Heads,” Father John said.

  “Too bad.” The cowboy quickly pocketed the coin. He racked up the balls. Stretching his lanky body along the cue, he took a long stroke that blasted the balls across the table. The three ball banked off the rails before dropping into a corner pocket. He put a lot of English on the next shot—a beauty. Two balls in the side pockets.

  Father John stood quietly watching. The cowboy could shoot the eyes off a ball. He was going to walk out of here with the ten dollars and anything he might know about Jennifer.

  The next shot was easy. Red Shirt looked up and smiled as he drew back the cue. A mistake, Father John thought. The cowboy was showing off. You couldn’t get cocky at pool. You had to stay focused.

  The sharp clack of the balls sounded. The two ball spun toward the side pocket, caught the edge of the bumper, and jumped back. Too much draw.

  Now it was Father John’s turn. He walked along the table, eyeing the best shot. Red Shirt had left a bad lay. Finally Father John spotted the shot. He pointed to the pockets he intended to hit and leaned over. The heft of the cue felt natural, his swing loose and fluid, as if his muscles remembered what his mind had forgotten. There was the whack and the clickety-clack of tumbling balls. The ten ball found its pocket, then the thirteen went down.

  He felt his confidence returning, the familiar focus and intent of all the times he had stood on the pitcher’s mound, as if the game were all. He couldn’t make any mistakes. If Red Shirt got back in, he’d clear the table. He called the next shot, then sank the fourteen ball, leaving a good lay for a double. Another stroke put two more balls in. Then he sank the nine ball.

  Only the twelve ball remained—a tough shot. He would have to bank off the cushion to put on just the right amount of speed. Too much and the ball would spin off course. Not enough, it would stop short.

  The cowboys were quiet. Cheers went up on the TV. Father John closed off the sounds and nodded to the pocket. Whummp. The twelve ball took the hit and careened sideways before dropping in. Now the eight ball. He indicated the center pocket and sank the ball. An easy shot.

  Father John picked up the ten-dollar bill and stuffed it back into his jeans pocket. “What’s Jennifer’s last name?” He kept his voice low.

  Red Shirt removed a cigarette package from his shirt pocket, shook one out, and stuck it in his mouth. “Smith.”

  “Smith?”

  “Hell, that’s what she said.” The cowboy in blue shrugged. “She was a drifter. Drifted up here from Cheyenne following the cowboys after Frontier Days.”

  “Yeah,” Red Shirt said. He had lit the cigarette, and smoke curled out of his nostrils. “Us cowboys got groupies just like rock stars.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “She never took me home with her.” Red Shirt faced his partner. “How about you? You get lucky?”

  “Yeah. In my dreams.”

  “What happened to her?” Father John asked.

  “Up and gone one day.” The cowboy in red threw back his head and took another drag from the cigarette. “About two weeks ago. Maybe old Herb out there tried to get inside her little panties. Wouldn’t blame him none. She had one tight little ass on her.”

  “Not to mention a couple of gorgeous bazooms.” His partner cupped both hands on his chest and did a little jig. His boots snapped against the tile floor.

  “Ever see her boyfriend around?” Father John asked.

  The room was silent except for the static noise on the TV and a woman’s laughter floating in from the bar. A curtain began to descend over the cowboys’ eyes. The one in red stepped back, stubbed out the cigarette on the floor. “The deal was the girl. Debt’s paid. Interview’s over. Time for a beer.” Swinging around, the two cowboys started for the bar.

  Father John threw on his parka and followed. Silence fell over the bar as he threaded his way past the tables, almost all of which were now occupied. Outside, the cold air smelled new and clean. He took a deep breath. Innuendo, sly exchanges, and a lot of theory, that’s all he had. He was getting nowhere. The police would have to find Marcus. But would they? In the meantime the Depperts, old and alone, were waiting, fearing the worst. He had to keep on. Before Sheldon succeeded in closing down St. Francis, he had to find out what had happened to Marcus Deppert. The problem was, he didn’t know where to turn next.

  He was about to get into the Toyota when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow flit across the side of the building. He spun around, adrenaline pumping, expecting a couple of cowboys to be on him. The figure darted in front of the pickup. It was the waitress. He felt his muscles relax.

  “Wait,” she called, picking her way toward him over the ice and snow, coatless, hunched forward, hugging her arms. “I heard Herb say you’re that priest that works with the Indians.” She moved close to him. “I’m sorry about in there.” She nodded toward the bar. “You know, my comin’ on to you like that. I didn’t know you was a priest. I mean, you just look like this sexy guy.” Gone was the shaky confidence. In its place, fear. He could sense it.

  “That Indian guy you’re lookin’ for,”—she dropped her voice to a whisper, even though they were the only ones in the parking lot—“he might be dead.”

  Father John felt his heart sink. “What are you talking about?”

  “Those cowboys at the bar, they beat him up real bad.” The girl was shivering so hard, her teeth were chattering. Father John took off his parka and placed it around her shoulders. “Tell me about it.”

  “A couple weeks ago, Marcus come to pick up Jennifer, just like usual. They were . . . together, you know. Well, the guys inside was waitin’ when him and Jennifer come out, and they grabbed him and took him over there.” The girl’s head flipped toward the back of the building. “Jennifer come runnin’ back in screamin’ for me to call the police, but Herb said if I did, I’d get the same. Then he pushed us out here and made us watch. Said that’s what happens to Indians that sleep with white girls. After they got done, they tossed him in his truck. Herb told Jennifer never to come back. I’d have left too, if I didn’t need this fuckin’ job.”

  She glanced toward the front door, the spotlight reflecting in her eyes. They had the look of a deer caught in the sights of a rifle. She went on, “I shouldn’t be talkin’ to you, but I been so stressed out. I can’t stop thinkin’ about it, like maybe I’m some kind of witness to murder.”

  “Where does Jennifer live?” Father John asked.

  The girl shook her head. It was like a shudder. “An old place over on Locust Street near Tenth. It’s got a black picket fence in front. Only she’s not there no more. I been by a couple times. I think she must’ve took off.” Slinging the parka around, she handed it to him. “I gotta get back before Herb sees me gone.” She turned and started running, the high heels skidding on the ice.

  Father John sat in the Toyota thinking a minute. It was the worst he’d feared. Marcus was dead. But it hadn’t happened the way he’d figured. He’d had it all wrong. The elaborate scheme involving Susan and the three white men—they had nothing to do with it. No wonder Vicky had gotten so angry. She’d had every right. Marcus had been beaten to death in the parking lot of Herb’s Place. Dear Lord.

  But then what? Had Jennifer panicked? Tried to dispose of the body in the ditch on Rendezvous Road, then returned for it? That didn’t make sense. Why would the girl protect the thugs in the bar? Why hadn’t she taken Marcus to the hospital? Neither hospital had any record of Marcus Deppert.

  Father John flipped on the ignition. The engine whined as he turned onto Highway 789. Traffic was light. A couple of trucks and a semi thundered past, shooting snow and ice into the air. He drove north with the traffic, praying silently for the soul of Marcus Deppert, hoping the young man had lost consciousness early and hadn’t suffered. There was nothing else Father John could do now, except notify Banner, who would notify the Riverton police and hope they followed up.

  But fi
rst he intended to check Jennifer’s house, on the chance she might be around. He wanted to know about Marcus’s last moments in case the old people asked him. He found Locust Street and drove north to Tenth, not wanting to admit it was probably a wild goose chase. The waitress said Jennifer had taken off, and the cowboys had called her a drifter. She had probably drifted on, like a storm that blew across the plains.

  The street lights formed a corridor of light ahead, making the black fence easy to spot. He pulled in next to the curb. The house was dark, except for a trace of light around the curtain at the front window. He might be in luck.

  He walked up the snow-bordered sidewalk, his boots creaking against the black ice. A storm door stood slightly ajar. He pulled it open and knocked on the inner door. It was quiet inside, the quiet, Father John thought, of a still, human presence. He waited before knocking again. Slowly the door opened the width of a chain, creating a long sliver of half-light. A young woman’s face peered cautiously around the edge. “Who are you?” Her voice was high-pitched, like a child’s.

  “Father O’Malley,” he said. Then he explained he was a friend of Marcus Deppert’s.

  “You got the wrong place.” The door started to shut.

  “Let him in.” The male voice came from somewhere inside.

  There was a moment with the door closed, with the muffled sound of a chain rattling. Then the door swung open. Beyond the girl stood Marcus Deppert.

  29

  Father John stepped into the room. There was a loud thud as the girl slammed the door. A lopsided lamp next to the sofa cast a dim light over the cushions, the wood block table, the dark upholstered chair, and brown vinyl floor. The odors of stale food and perspiration—the smell of fear—floated toward him.

  Marcus looked as if he’d just gotten out of the chair. He wore a wrinkled blue-and-white-striped shirt, the cuffs of which hung loose around his wrists, blue jeans with the silver image of a buffalo at the belt buckle, and cowboy boots with scraped toes. Father John felt like a parent; he didn’t know whether to hug the young man—he was so glad to find him alive—or throttle him for causing so much worry.

  He’d already been throttled. The dark bruise along his jaw and across one cheek, the abrasions around his mouth, and the blood-red whites of his eyes were evidence of that. “Are you okay, Marcus?” Father John asked.

  Confusion came over the Arapaho’s face a moment. Then he raised one hand and patted his jaw. “Some white sons-of-bitches worked me over. Messed up my face. Cracked a couple ribs. Nothin’ fatal. Lucky I was wasted.” He shrugged, and Father John sensed it wasn’t the beating that kept Marcus prisoner in this cavelike bungalow.

  “Meet Jennifer,” Marcus said as the girl sidled over and took his hand, lacing white fingers among the brown. She was almost as tall as Marcus—about six feet—and dressed in tight blue jeans and a black sweater that clung to the contours of her breasts. She was barefoot. Tossing back her long brown hair, she stared at Father John out of dark, scared eyes.

  He said to Marcus, “Your grandparents have been worried.”

  The young man looked away, shifting from one foot to the other. “I been tryin’ to figure a way to go see ’em, make sure they’re okay, but I couldn’t risk it. They’re lookin’ all over the rez for me.”

  “Who? Tell me, Marcus. Maybe I can help you.”

  “Nobody can help. I seen what they did to Rich. They’re gonna do the same to me.” There was a catch in the young man’s voice. He sank down into the chair, pulling the girl onto his lap. She curled her body along his.

  Father John perched on the edge of the wood block table. “Start at the beginning,” he said.

  Marcus kept his voice low, almost a whisper. Rich Dolby came to him with a deal. Just like Rich, always lookin’ to score. Last time Rich got one of his big ideas, Marcus went to Leavenworth for three years. He should’ve told Rich to get lost, but he got sucked in. Besides, he wasn’t up to any other kind of work ’cause of the fuckin’ broken ribs. So what the hell. All he had to do was drive brand-new Jeeps to Denver and back for some nice money.

  Father John interrupted. “Who hired Rich?”

  Marcus shook his head. “He got orders from two white guys. Gary and Ty, he called ’em. I don’t know last names.”

  Father John drew in his breath. Whatever trouble Marcus and Rich were in, Susan’s friends were involved up to their eyeballs.

  Marcus went on. “They gave Rich a certified check, and we went over and picked up a couple new Jeeps at Big Phil’s. We drove ’em back to Rich’s house.”

  Jennifer nodded to confirm this fact.

  “A few days later, Rich comes over, says the Jeeps are ready, and we gotta go.” Marcus emitted a small, scared laugh. “I swear, Father, I thought maybe we was gonna drive some big shots to Denver or somethin’, but there was nobody but us. Soon’s we got to Denver, we went to some warehouse by the railroad tracks and parked inside. All of a sudden guys come from everywhere and start crawlin’ all over the Jeeps, pulling out packages. There was packages everyplace—under the carpet and dashboard, taped in the compartment with the spare tire—real neat and tidy-like. I was totally shocked.”

  “You didn’t know you were delivering drugs?” Father John found that hard to believe, given Marcus’s history.

  “I swear by my grandfather,” the young man said, a solemn look in his eyes. “I was mad as hell. I wanted to kill Rich myself for handin’ me a one-way trip back to Leavenworth. Then these guys at the warehouse throw in three big suitcases, make us sign for ’em, and we take off for the rez. We don’t stop for nothin’, not even gas, ’til we get to Cheyenne, and I say to Rich, What the hell’s goin’ on? Don’t worry, he says. It’s a real cushy deal. Gary and Ty produce the stuff, and all we gotta do is drive nice new Jeeps to Denver every week, and the boys in Denver ship the stuff around the country. Rich says Gary and Ty got the risk, but I figure, no way, we got the risk. Police stop us, we got the stuff. I say I’m out, but Rich says, oh no, you’re in. ’Cause I’ve already made a delivery.”

  Father John removed his cowboy hat and ran his hand through his hair, mentally filling in the blanks. Gary and Ty and Morrissey Porterfield, the man Vicky called “the professor,” were operating a drug lab somewhere on Wind River Reservation. But where? Not at the ranch house. There had been no sign of anything like that. That meant the lab could be anywhere in about four thousand square miles—in some abandoned barn, in an arroyo, a cave in the mountains. Without the lab there was no proof, only the story of a convicted felon.

  “What kind of drug are they manufacturing?”

  “Heroin,” Marcus said.

  Father John blew into one fist a moment. That fit. It was probably heroin Susan was on. But heroin was a different matter from the kinds of drugs—the pot and amphetamines—that Marcus and Rich had been mixed up with in the past. Heroin was a big-ticket drug, controlled by outsiders, by powerful forces. Father John felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room. Who was Susan Holden involved with?

  “Where are they processing it?”

  Marcus was shaking his head. “Not processing. They’re making it. Leastways, it’s the same as heroin. Rich called it fentanyl. Users don’t know the difference. The beauty is, it’s cheaper to produce than heroin, but costs the same on the street. So the profits are way up there. ’Course, you gotta have a brain that knows how to make the stuff.”

  “That would be the professor,” Father John said. The pieces were clicking into place, like pool balls dropping into the pockets.

  Marcus looked startled. “You know the professor?”

  Father John ignored the question. “Where’s the lab, Marcus?”

  The Arapaho let out a loud snort. “Like they’re gonna tell us? Me and Rich, we was flunkies. All we know was what they wanted us to know.”

  That was probably true. Get two Indians with experience in peddling drugs to be the errand boys. “What happened after you got back from Denver?”

  “We
parked the Jeeps at Rich’s, and I got the hell out of there. A couple hours later, he comes to my place over in Easter Egg Village and hands me a thousand dollars. A thousand dollars for twenty-four hours’ work!”

  “How many deliveries did you make?”

  Marcus shifted in the chair, and Jennifer traced one finger along the side of his face. “Go on, tell him,” she said in the little-girl voice.

  “One more. Last week. Same thing as before. We deliver the packages to the warehouse and load up some suitcases. Only when we stop for gas, Rich don’t shut up about those suitcases being filled with cash. Jesus, I told him. Keep it down. We’ll have every cowboy in Wyoming after us. I should’ve known he’d pull somethin’ stupid.”

  Marcus glanced at the girl, then continued. “Like before, we take the Jeeps to Rich’s, and I go home to wait. Only this time Rich don’t come over. I’m thinkin’ he stiffed me. So I go lookin’ for him. I check out a couple parties, but he ain’t there. I go back to his house. Out in front are two pickups. Somethin’ about ’em made me kinda uneasy, so I parked my truck down the road a ways, and circled back along the creekbed. Soon’s I snuck up to the back, I hear shoutin’ inside, and Rich, like, he’s cryin’. I slide open the kitchen window just enough so I can see straight into the living room.” Marcus blinked, as if he were seeing it still.

  After a few seconds, he went on. “There were these two white guys. One’s got brown hair; the other’s kinda blond with this stubbly beard. They got Rich tied to a chair, and they’re hittin’ him. The blond guy, he says they’re gonna teach him what’s his and what ain’t. Rich is cryin’ hard. He’s got on that necklace he always wore, and the blond guy starts twisting it around his neck. When he let go, Rich is coughin’ like he’s dyin’. He tells ’em to go look on the closet shelf. The guy with brown hair goes into the bedroom and comes back with a box. ‘Half of it’s here,’ he says. The blond guy yells at Rich, ‘You motherfucker!’”

  Marcus stopped talking and stared off into space, as if he were watching a movie. “Rich yells out, ‘Marcus got the rest!’ and that’s when hell really breaks loose. The blond guy grabs a star quilt off the sofa—Rich’s mom made it for him—and throws it over Rich’s head. Then he pushes a pistol, against Rich’s head, like this.” Marcus bent his head toward Jennifer. “The other guy’s yellin’, ‘No, man. Don’t shoot him!’ Jesus, I knew what was comin’ down, but I was frozen stiff. I couldn’t do nothin’.” Marcus dropped his head into his hands, and the girl slipped both arms around him, hugging him close.