The snow and ice and asphalt blurred in the headlights, and Father John ran one gloved hand across his eyes, wiping away the moisture. The highway skirted the edge of Riverton, past the ghostlike garages and restaurants, the automobile parts store, the supermarket. Everything seemed to be dropping away, leaving him alone with the thirst that burned inside like a laser beam. It was all he could think about.
He passed Herb’s Place, his eyes searching for the brown frame building set back about fifty feet from the highway. After another half-mile he spotted the lighted sign between two posts close to the curb. FRIENDLY LIQUOR STORE. 24-HOUR DRIVE-THROUGH. WE NEVER CLOSE.
Father John took a sharp left, crossing in front of an oncoming truck that came out of nowhere. He pushed hard on the gas pedal—a reflex—as a horn bleeped into the early-morning stillness. The Toyota jumped the curb, barely missing the lighted sign. Easing on the brakes, he managed to wheel into the driveway and stop at a glass box that glowed like a Christmas ornament on the side of the building. He rolled down his window at the same time the Arapaho woman inside the box slid back a glass panel and leaned onto a tiny counter. “That you, Father John?”
He must know her, this Arapaho woman selling alcohol to her people. Well, it was a job. He couldn’t recall her name, his mind had collapsed into the burning light inside, the tremendous craving. He stretched back against his seat to extract the ten-dollar bill from the pocket of his blue jeans. Reaching through his opened window, he flattened the bill on the counter. “A bottle of whiskey,” he said, dimly aware of the hoarseness in his voice.
The woman stared at the bill. “You sure, Father?”
“Just get whatever it buys.”
She picked up the bill and disappeared into the dimly lit interior. Wind gusted between the building and the Toyota, blowing snow against his face. He concentrated on the woman’s return. She was taking forever. Finally she stepped back into the glass box and set a bottle in a brown bag on the counter. She held out the change. He waved it away and grabbed the bag.
The weight of the whiskey bottle on the front seat beside him felt light and cool against his thigh as the Toyota followed the curve of the driveway around the building and pulled out onto the highway.
32
Father John drove through the grounds of St. Francis Mission, past the school and the administration building, past Eagle Hall and the guest house. He drove on, the Toyota rocking over the ice-rutted road until it ran into a wedge of snow. The tires churned and strained before finally grinding to a stop.
He turned off the engine and flipped off the headlights. Easing the bottle out of the paper bag, he twisted off the cap. The smell of whiskey floated around him as he stepped out into the gray moonlight. Cottonwoods loomed overhead, a ghostly presence with snow tracing the leafless branches. Dipping his chin into his parka and pulling his cowboy hat forward, he started walking through the wind-sculptured snow, bending his knees with each step, as if he were climbing a steep mountain. The whiskey sloshed out of the bottle and bored little holes into the snow as he went.
He reached the bank of the Little Wind River and lowered himself onto the trunk of a fallen cottonwood. The soft swish-swish of the wind in the trees mingled with the sounds of water gurgling over the blue-gray ice. The river was streaked in moonlight.
It appealed to his sense of irony to get drunk here. The last pastor of St. Francis Mission would admit his utter failure at the exact place to which the first pastor had come: Black Night’s camp. It was to this place the Arapaho bands had straggled from across the plains when they had nowhere else to go.
Father John glanced around him. The village was here among the cottonwoods: the tipis arranged in a circle, the campfire burning in the center, the pony herd corralled off in the clearings. He could almost hear the sounds of ponies neighing, women keening over all they had lost, children coughing and crying.
Come and help us, Chief Black Night had pleaded with the Jesuits. Father John repeated the words out loud: “Help us. Help us find the future.” It was a request of hope, an affirmation that there would be a future. And the first pastor had come by train part of the way, the rest of the way on horseback, guided by the warriors. He had said Mass on the banks of the river, had consecrated the bread, raising it toward heaven: the body of Christ, the presence of God in the word. In hope, he had prayed.
Father John set the bottle into the snow next to his boot and dropped his head into both hands. He heard the sounds of his own sobbing as he prayed. “O God of abundance and mercy, forgive me, forgive me. Give me the grace to hope.”
Straightening his shoulders, he gulped in the icy air, feeling it crimp his lungs. Then he reached down, grabbed the neck of the bottle, and tipped it sideways, watching as the whiskey carved a brown trench into the snow. The fumes wafted upward, engulfing him. He got to his feet and walked to the edge of the river, where he stood a long while, watching the water cut its narrow channel through the ice. Finally he walked back, picked up the bottle, and threw it as hard as he’d ever thrown a baseball. His shoulder muscles burned as the bottle sailed through the cottonwood branches out over the river, into the darkness.
He retraced his footsteps through the snow until he realized he had walked to the river in circles, and now sighted a more direct path. As he neared the Toyota, he spotted a slight, dark figure coming down the road. He knew it was Vicky. He went to meet her.
“I heard an engine,” she said. Her breath came in frozen clouds. “It woke me. I looked out and saw the Toyota headed down here. Are you okay?”
Father John said nothing. He put an arm around her shoulders and guided her back to the Toyota. He could feel her shivering through the downy layers of her parka.
He let her in the passenger side, then tramped through the snow and slid in behind the wheel. “You’ll be warm in a minute,” he said, turning on the engine and pushing up the heat lever. He knew it would take a few minutes before the old engine began cranking out any heat.
“It smells like a bar in here.”
“Don’t ask,” he said, staring past the windshield at the cottonwood branches tangled against the gray sky. He could feel her watching him.
Vicky was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “Ben has started drinking again.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It can happen.”
“But you didn’t start.” Her voice was low.
Father John was aware of the hint of warm air starting out of the vents now, the soft shuddering of the motor, the silence between them. He turned toward her. “Not this time.”
“Tell me what’s happened. What sent you here?”
“Marcus Deppert was murdered a couple hours ago,” he said softly. “He and a white girl. At the Buffalo Motel.” He drew in a long breath, then began relating everything, letting it all come out: the drug lab, Gary and Ty, the murders of Rich Dolby and Annie Chambeau. He stopped at relating his latest theory about Nick Sheldon and the plans to close St. Francis Mission and build a so-called recreation center. It was enough to comprehend just the facts. The hardest fact was the murder of Marcus and the girl, the murders he might have prevented.
Vicky hadn’t taken her eyes away. “You mustn’t blame yourself, John.” She reached out and laid a hand on his arm. “They would’ve found Marcus eventually. It was a question of time.”
“I should have taken him to Fort Washakie.”
“Yes,” Vicky said sarcastically. “You should have hog-tied him and thrown him in the back of your pickup. Because that’s the only way he would’ve gone. He was a stubborn Indian.” Vicky paused a moment. Then she whispered, “We don’t control everything, and everything isn’t the way we want it to be. I’ve had to learn that.”
Father John felt the pressure of her fingers through his parka. The Arapahos believed there was a healing grace in the touch of human fingers. He knew the truth of it.
After a moment Vicky took her hand away and looked out her window. “If anything, I should have listened to you
and had Gary arrested for menacing and trespassing. He was waiting for us outside the hospital this afternoon, but I was able to lose him. That’s why we came to St. Francis.”
Father John said nothing. It was some consolation. At least he had told her about the guest house.
“And I shouldn’t have been so stubborn,” Vicky said, sadness in her voice. “Of course you were right. I should have tried to convince Susan to go to the police.”
“It’s not too late,” Father John said. “Maybe she knows something that will help.”
Vicky turned back to him. Moonlight washed across her face, and he saw the worry in her eyes. “What can that be? Susan and I have gone over everything. She swears she doesn’t know what Ty and the others are up to. They kept her drugged, fed her a story about starting a business. Some business.” Vicky shook her head. “Anyway, Banner and the feds have enough for a search warrant based on what Marcus told you. They’re probably all over Lean Bear’s ranch right now.”
“They have to find the lab, Vicky. There’s no proof, nothing to tie the white men to Marcus without the lab.”
Vicky stared out her window again. After a few seconds she said, “The lab is not in the house or in any of the barns out in the pastures. That would be too risky. Ben could show up at any time and discover it. It would be like him—when he isn’t drinking—to check on how they’re taking care of things. He’s a stickler for keeping everything in tip-top shape. No, the lab is somewhere else, somewhere not Ben or anyone else would think of going to, especially in the winter.”
Suddenly Vicky laid her head back on the top of the seat. “Oh, my God,” she said, drawing out the words. “I know where it is.”
33
Father John kept his eyes on the Indian woman beside him, staring up at the roof of the cab, a smile playing at her mouth. The last piece of the puzzle, and she had figured it out. “Where?” he asked.
Vicky raised her head and turned toward him. “Last Tuesday,” she began, “when I drove up to the ranch to see Susan, the gate was closed. I was about to climb over when Gary came barreling down the mountain in a Chevy pickup. Down the mountain! I wondered at the time. There’s nothing at the end of the road except the top of the mountain and probably twenty feet of snow. But about three miles up is the turnoff to the upper pasture. It’s secluded, surrounded by mountain peaks. There’s a barn and a couple of small buildings. The lab must be in one of them. That’s where Gary had been. He must’ve come back to the ranch for something; maybe he forgot something. Anyway, he found me.”
It could be, Father John was thinking. But how would Gary and the others know about the upper pasture?
As if she had caught the drift of his thoughts, Vicky said, “It was one of Susan’s favorite places. It was where she learned to ride the gelding her father gave her on her eighth birthday. She probably told Ty all kinds of things about growing up on the reservation. She was in love with him, John. Women tell those things to the men they love. Unfortunately Susan fell in love with the wrong man.” Vicky looked away again. “She’s not the first woman to do that.”
Father John leaned one shoulder into the window, took a deep breath, and blew it out. “Then it’s over,” he said. “Banner and the feds will find the lab.”
“No,” Vicky said, jerking upright. “They won’t find it. It’s not part of Lean Bear’s ranch. It’s a separate forty acres Ben inherited from his grandfather. A high mountain meadow good only for pasturing sheep in the summers. It was beautiful in the summers, filled with lupin and wild roses. We used to camp up there sometimes . . .” Her voice trailed off. “No one would know to look there. And anyway, a warrant for the ranch wouldn’t cover the upper pasture.”
“Banner has to be told,” Father John said, jamming the gear into reverse. The tires screamed as they dug into the frozen earth. He shifted into forward, then into reverse again, rocking the Toyota free from the wedge of snow. As they began backing through the ridged tracks, he rolled down his window and stuck out his head to keep the Toyota in the narrow road. He backed all the way to the guest house.
“I’ll call Banner and arrange to bring Susan in. She and I are supposed to fly out of here in the afternoon.” Vicky grasped the door handle, then hesitated. “I called that Jesuit friend of yours who runs the rehab hospital in Denver, Jim McCarthy. Only I spoke with his wife. She said they had a long waiting list. When I mentioned your name, she agreed to admit Susan right away. Tell me, how is it Father Jim McCarthy has a wife?”
Father John was quiet a moment. Then he said, “Jim was laicized. I guess he met someone he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.”
“I see,” Vicky said, opening the door and sliding out.
No, she didn’t see, Father John thought, watching her disappear into the guest house. Jim McCarthy could no longer be a priest.
* * *
Father John punched in Banner’s numbers again, trying to ignore the sounds of metal pans banging and cabinet doors slamming in the kitchen. Elena had arrived and was obviously registering her displeasure over the fact that he had trespassed on her domain to brew himself some coffee. He took another sip from the mug as the disembodied female voice on the other end of the line solemnly assured him the chief would return his call the minute he came in. She had said the same thing an hour ago.
He slammed down the receiver and glanced up from the desk, startled at the silent specter in the doorway: Father Peter in the oversized black coat that trailed along the tops of his boots, his black fedora squashed into the rim of fuzzy white hair. Just returned from saying Mass for the old faithfuls. He looked stricken.
“Leonard Bizzel, a reliable source of information, informed me about Marcus Deppert and the young woman. I offered the Mass for the repose of their souls. ‘Confusion now hath made his masterpiece! Most sacrilegious murder . . .’”
Father John took another pull of the coffee. The gray light of morning filtered through the window, creating patterns of shadows over the walls and carpet, the wingback chairs. He had no patience for Shakespeare right now; he wanted Banner to call.
“Macbeth, act two, scene one,” Father Peter said, sadness in his tone.
The jangling phone mingled with the sound of the old man’s footsteps shuffling down the hallway. Father John pounced on the receiver. “Banner! What’s happened?” He wasn’t sure it was the chief until he heard the voice hoarse with tiredness.
“Listen, John,” Banner said, “we’ve checked out Lean Bear’s ranch. House, barn, outbuildings—totally clean. We didn’t find a crystal of fentanyl, heroin, or anything else.”
“What about the men?”
“Gone.”
Father John felt his heart sinking. “What do you mean?”
“Cleared out. No sign of them. We’ve got an all points out. Meantime, the feds are runnin’ the names through the computers, lookin’ for priors. We’re gonna get these dudes, don’t worry.”
It wasn’t reassuring, Father John thought. The police hadn’t ever located the gray Chevy truck after he had found the body—Rich Dolby’s body—on Rendezvous Road.
“What about the buildings in the upper pasture?”
There was a pause on the line. “What upper pasture? What’re you talkin’ about?”
“The forty acres up the mountain.”
“Jesus. You mean where Ben Holden used to pasture his sheep years ago?”
“That’s where they’re manufacturing fentanyl.”
Father John heard the sharp jabs of breath. “You know that for sure? You seen it yourself? You know somebody who’s seen it? You got any proof?” Anger mixed with incredulity in the chief’s voice.
Father John admitted he hadn’t seen it. There were no eyewitnesses, nothing except Vicky’s hunch.
“Vicky and Ben been divorced a long time,” the chief said. “What’s she got to do with this?”
Father John ignored the question. Vicky would be bringing Susan in soon. She could explain it herself. He said, “It’s t
here, Banner. Go back. You’ll find it.”
“What you’re sayin’ is the fed and I gotta go see the magistrate in Lander, who’s real happy with us right now ’cause we roused him out of bed before dawn to get a search warrant which turned up nothing. Absolutely nothing. And now you’re suggesting we ask him for another warrant? And on what evidence? That you know somebody who’s got a hunch the drug lab’s there.”
“Trust me, Banner. I’m sure Vicky’s right about this.”
“Well, it’s like this, John. We got a big problem. The magistrate was real reluctant to give us warrant number one. It’s not like we had hard evidence to connect three white guys with last night’s homicides. All we had was what Marcus told you—hearsay. And Marcus, poor son-of-a-bitch, wasn’t the most reliable Indian in the world. However, because of the homicides, the magistrate went out on a limb and gave us the warrant, along with a little warning against racial harassment.”
“What?”
“Harassing three white guys on an Indian reservation. After my boys went out there this week and had a discussion with Gary Rollins about where he was Sunday night when you spotted the body, he called an attorney and complained about harassment. And the attorney called the federal magistrate and said we were harassing whites for no reason. So, like I say, we were lucky to get one search warrant, and the magistrate’s not gonna give us another without some hard evidence.”
“Who is the attorney?” Father John stared out the window at the snowy grounds glistening in the morning light. He knew the answer. He was waiting for the confirmation.
“Some big shot out of Los Angeles. Just the kind liable to file a big harassment case against the tribe. Shaffer, Shelby.”
“Sheldon?”
“Yeah. You know him?”
Father John’s hand tightened on the receiver. The wild supposition, the preposterous theory—it was right. “Listen, Banner, the three men could be at Nick Sheldon’s place in Lander. It’s the large red brick house on the north end of Martin Drive.”
The Ghost Walker Page 19
