“You’re a brave man, O’Malley.” Red Wolf was shaking his head. “I gotta hand it to you, coming out here to my compound and accusing me of killing some white man.”
“I came out here looking for answers.” Father John struggled to control his own fury.
“I was born a warrior, O’Malley.” The Indian’s gaze was steady. “’Nam gave me some modern training, that’s all. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. You wouldn’t see me coming. Just like those jacks . . .” A backward nod. “They never heard me sneaking up on them. All of a sudden they were looking down the barrel of my shotgun, eyes as big as saucers.”
Father John didn’t say anything. Silence settled between them, except for the shush of the wind in the willow branches. He had a sense that the man was telling the truth. Sonny Red Wolf was the kind of warrior who didn’t make mistakes.
And yet, and yet . . . A man who hated whites. Who wanted the mission closed. That man might have come after him and shot his assistant who happened to be driving the Toyota. He said, “The FBI agent is going to want to know where you were yesterday afternoon.”
Red Wolf gave a little snort and shifted his weight against the table. “So I got you to thank for siccin’ the FBI on me this morning. Too bad you didn’t get here sooner. Could’ve seen the look on that fed’s white face when he couldn’t find anything in this compound to tie me to the murder. Went scurrying out of here with his tail between his legs.”
Suddenly the Indian pushed himself away from the table and stepped closer. Father John could see the tiny specks of dried blood, like red gnats splattered on his leather jacket. The faint odor of blood wafted through the air.
“Why don’t you do the same, O’Malley? Get on outta here. I know what you white folks are up to. You and that fed and that lawyer lady that hangs around with you, a white wannabe. You’d like to pin this murder on me and get me out of the way before I take over the res. It’s not going to work. I’ve got a lot of people with me.” He shot a glance around the brush shade. “I’m not getting mixed up in your white fight.”
Father John kept his eyes on the Indian’s. “What do you mean, white fight?”
Sonny Red Wolf lifted his chin and stared. A look of disbelief flashed in his eyes. “Listen in on the moccasin telegraph once in a while, why don’t you? There isn’t an Arapaho on the res that’s got a clue why that old man was shot. You’re a Jesuit. Figure it out. The people don’t know anything because nobody had anything to do with it. Some white guy had it in for that priest and went out to Thunder Lane and killed him.”
Father John glanced through the opening at the sun slanting gold across the hood of the Escort. It wasn’t Father Joseph the killer had been after. The old priest had been here only two weeks. Yes, he’d been at St. Francis before. But the possibility that someone had been biding his time for thirty-five years, waiting for Father Joseph to return so he could kill him, didn’t make sense. No one could have expected Joseph Keenan to return to St. Francis. Father John hadn’t even known the man was coming until a few days before he arrived. Yesterday, both Gianelli and Banner had dismissed the possibility, and in their expressions Father John had seen the reflection of his own skepticism. The fact was, Joseph Keenan had been driving his red Toyota pickup.
There was another possibility, he realized now. One not so easily dismissed. Maybe Joseph Keenan had been the intended victim. Maybe the killer wasn’t someone Joseph had known on the reservation. Maybe he had followed the priest here. What better place than the open spaces of the reservation to commit a cold-blooded, anonymous murder? A white fight, Sonny Red Wolf called it.
Father John brought his eyes back to the Indian’s. “If you’ve got a beef with me, Sonny, take it up with me. I don’t want any innocent people hurt.” He swung around and walked through the opening.
“Tell that to your white friends,” the Indian called after him.
• • •
The Escort’s engine growled into the mountain quiet as Father John drove downslope past the buildings and the house. He turned onto the road. A dark truck was hurtling toward him, dust rising from the tires like a swarm of mosquitoes. He hit the brake pedal, and the Escort skidded to a stop at the edge of the barrow ditch. The truck screeched to a halt, and a small, wiry man jumped out. Robert Cutting Horse, one of Red Wolf’s followers. Father John recognized him from the demonstration last spring.
The Indian started toward the Escort, bobbing and weaving around the hood. Even before he thrust a brown face into the opened window, Father John could smell the whiskey. Instinctively he leaned away.
The Indian blinked, comprehension working slowly into his expression. “I gotta talk to you, Father,” he said.
“Is this about Father Joseph’s murder?” Father John asked.
“Murder? I don’t know about no murder.” Another blink. “I gotta get my life turned around. I hear you run some AA meetings.”
Father John sighed. The man had probably been at a drinking house and hadn’t heard about the murder. “Come see me at the mission when you’re sober, Robert,” he said.
“I wanna stop this drinkin’ shit.”
“Come to the mission, and we’ll talk.” Father John eased up on the brake, and the Escort started to creep forward. The Indian stepped back. As he wheeled around the truck and started down the road, Father John saw the man blinking after him in the rearview mirror, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans. The odor of whiskey drifted in the air, as clear and strong as a memory.
• • •
He drove forty miles across the reservation, the sun fracturing the rear window into a kaleidoscope of colors, his thoughts on Sonny Red Wolf. A clever man. Deflecting suspicion from himself by suggesting someone else was to blame was the oldest ruse of a guilty man. But truth rang in what he said, like the faint, distant clang of a bell. Father John had often heard the sound in the confessional, in counseling sessions: the irrelevant, offhand remark that caused everything to click into focus, as if the binoculars had been adjusted and what was once hidden and obscure had suddenly snapped into view.
Father John stared at the empty stretch of road ahead, searching for the logical connections. A white fight, Sonny had called it. What was it the Provincial had said? Joseph Keenan had insisted upon coming back to St. Francis Mission. Why had he wanted to return to a place he hadn’t seen in thirty-five years? What had he been running from? What had followed him here?
He slowed for the turn into the mission. Cottonwood branches swayed overhead, leaves shimmering gold in the last flare of sunlight. As he banked around Circle Drive, he saw that the grounds were empty, except for Elena’s old Chevy parked next to the residence. Like Leonard, the housekeeper had come to work today, despite the fact that a killer could show up at any moment looking for him, if his own theory was correct.
What proof did he have otherwise? The remarks of a man who might be guilty of murder? Who had killed a man in the past? Who had every reason to send the investigation in another direction—away from himself? Still . . .
He thought about the papers and books in Joseph’s room. Gianelli and Banner could have missed something. The image of himself raging through the man’s possessions brought a stab of pain. He hadn’t found anything unusual, but he’d been looking for a bottle of whiskey, not something to explain a murder. He decided to have another look.
The unmistakable odor of beef stew floated into the dim hallway as he let himself through the front door of the residence. From the kitchen came the sounds of metal scraping metal, tap water gushing. He tossed his cowboy hat onto the bench in the entry and started up the stairs.
“That you, Father?” Elena appeared below, dabbing her hands onto the apron. “We been waitin’ for you.”
“We?” He stopped halfway up the stairs and leaned over the banister.
“You got a visitor. Been here most the afternoon. I was startin’ to get worried, you bein’ so late.”
Father John turned and came back down the stairs. “Who is i
t?” he asked, heading toward the closed door of the study.
“She’s waitin’ out on the patio.”
Vicky, Father John thought. She’d talked to somebody, learned something. He’d been worrying all day about what she might do, the danger she might put herself into. It was the worry about the people around him—the people he loved—that had made him decide to pay a visit to Sonny Red Wolf.
He brushed past the housekeeper and walked through the kitchen to the small utility room that opened onto the outside stairway. Footsteps trailed behind.
“You’re gonna be real surprised,” Elena said.
He opened the back door and stared down the short flight of stairs at the redheaded woman seated in one of the patio chairs, Walks-On curled at her feet.
10
The woman lifted herself out of the webbed chair, a graceful, confident unfolding of her slim, attractive figure. She tilted her face and fixed him with the bluest eyes he’d seen in a long while. Intelligence and defiance mingled in her expression and enhanced her beauty. A mass of copper-colored hair caught the light of the sun dropping behind the mountains. Freckles sprinkled her nose and cheeks. Her lips were touched with red. She stood at the edge of the table, a small purse tossed on the top, the breeze plucking at her silver-colored blouse and black slacks. For an instant he felt as if two planes had collided—past and present—and he had been transported back twenty-five years, so strong was her resemblance to Eileen.
“Megan O’Malley,” he said, hurrying down the stairs. Walks-On raised his head and eyed him sleepily as he placed his arms around the girl.
She stepped out of his arms and fastened her eyes on his. “Hello, Uncle John,” she said. There was a hint of anger in her voice, or had he imagined it?
He kept one hand on her shoulder, scarcely believing she was here. No one in his family had visited in the seven years he’d been at St. Francis. But who would come? Not his brother Mike. Certainly not Eileen, or any of their six kids—he still thought of them as kids. Yet Megan, the oldest, had to be about twenty-five, hardly the gangly sprite of a girl he remembered in his early visits to his brother’s home, before the visits had become so uncomfortable he’d decided to curtail them.
His visit last spring had been cordial. Perfectly cordial and formal. The youngest kids had trailed into the house—quick hellos, disinterested exchanges. He’d had to shake himself into the realization they were already in high school. The others were away: one in law school, another at Boston College. And Megan, an architect living in New York, engaged to be married.
“You look fantastic,” he said.
She gave him a mirthless smile. “Is that because I have red hair and freckles like you?”
His own laugh sounded forced and uncertain in his ears. “What brought you all the way to Wyoming?”
“Just a visit.” He caught the false note. Something was wrong. And she had come at the worst possible time.
As if she’d read his thoughts, she said, “Oh, I know about the murdered priest. Elena told me that it could have been you. Shouldn’t you close the mission and go away?”
“You sound like my boss,” he said, trying for a lighter tone.
“You have a boss?” The blue eyes widened in mock surprise. “I never thought of you as having a boss.”
“I have a lot of them, I’m afraid.” Father John shrugged.
“So you ignore them?”
“I do my best. Look, Megan,” he hurried on, “the mission might not be the safest place right now—”
“Something told me I had to come,” she interrupted. “Now I understand why I was drawn here. Elena said I could stay at the guest house.”
That explained why he hadn’t seen her car on the grounds. It was parked at the guest house behind Eagle Hall, and she was already settled in. He sighed. “Promise me you’ll be careful,” he said. “Don’t walk around the grounds by yourself at night.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she shot back. “I’ve been living in New York City for three years. I can take care of myself.” He saw by the way she pulled her gaze toward the dark ridge of mountains in the distance that there was something else on her mind.
The door squeaked above them, and he glanced around. Elena stood on the landing. “Dinner’s on,” she called. “Come eat while it’s hot.”
Megan scooped the purse from the table and, brushing past him, started up the stairs. The sun had disappeared, leaving an electric sky of reds and purples and oranges. Shadows had started to gather at the perimeters of the mission grounds, like animals stalking their prey.
He started after his niece. Walks-On trailed alongside, an easy lope up the stairs on three legs. In the kitchen, the dog headed for his rug. Elena led the way to the dining room. Sometimes he forgot about the hollow, dark space between the kitchen and living room. The last time he’d eaten there was two years ago, when the bishop had come for dinner. Elena had gotten out the mismatched china and yellowed tablecloths, the candles and brass candlestick holders, and transformed the room into a place of warmth and comfort, like a real home, he had thought.
He saw that the housekeeper had worked the same magic this evening. Candlelight flickered over the tablecloth and licked at the white plates with tiny tongues of fire. He held a side chair for Megan before taking the end chair close to her. Within a moment Elena set bowls of hot stew in front of them.
“Please join us, Elena,” he said as she started toward the kitchen.
The housekeeper stopped. Leaning toward him, she sent him an accusatory glare. “My grandbaby’s birthday party’s tonight. Remember? I told you all about it.” The whisper of a memory came to him. Breakfast a couple of mornings ago. Elena stirring oatmeal at the stove and prattling on about an upcoming party. And he—he grimaced at the thought—half listening, sipping at his coffee, perusing the morning paper. “Besides,” the housekeeper was saying, “you need to have a good chat together, just the two of you. Don’t need no outsiders listenin’ in.”
“I wouldn’t call you an outsider.”
“Don’t see me with red hair, do you?” Slowly she ran a brown hand over the clumps of Megan’s red hair, as if to feel the color. Then, giving the young woman’s shoulder a little pat, she whirled around and slipped past the door.
Father John bowed his head over the stew, drawing in the hot, pungent odor as he said the grace out loud. Bless us, O Lord, for these thy gifts . . . The words familiar, ingrained in his heart. Then he added, “Thank you, O Lord, for bringing Megan here today, and keep her and all of the people at St. Francis Mission safely in your care.”
Megan said nothing, eyes cast downward, like those of a convent girl whose thoughts were elsewhere. Wisps of steam lapped at the sprinkle of freckles on her face. He kept his gaze on her as he took a bite of the stew. It was delicious, a sharp reminder of the hunger he’d tried to ignore as he’d driven across the reservation this afternoon. She was poking her fork into her bowl, absentmindedly stirring the thick brown gravy and chunks of beef, carrots, and potatoes, eyes still cast down. Finally she raised her fork and nibbled at a chunk of potato.
From the kitchen came a scuffling sound, the rattle of keys. Elena stuck her head through the doorway. “I’ll be goin’ now,” she said. “Leave the dishes. I’ll tidy up tomorrow.” An announcement, he realized, that she would return tomorrow. And then she was gone, footsteps clacking in the hall, front door shutting.
Father John turned his attention to the young woman beside him. “What brought you here, Megan?”
“Didn’t I tell you? I wanted to see you.” There was a hard edge to her tone.
Father John took another bite of stew and waited for her to go on. When she didn’t he said, “Is everything okay between you and your fiancé?”
“Jay? This has nothing to do with Jay.” A mixture of amusement and anger flashed in the blue eyes. “He insisted I come. He’s been very supportive, even when I quit my job.”
“Quit your job?” Father John set his fork dow
n and stared at her. Whatever lay beneath the confident exterior was darker and more troubling than he’d guessed.
“My boss said I could take two weeks.” A defensive tone. “What if I needed more time? I wasn’t sure how long I’d want to stay.”
“What’s troubling you?” His voice was soft. “What’s going on?”
Tears had begun to pool in her eyes and trickle along her cheeks, blurring the freckles. She raised a hand and wiped at the tears, leaving a sheen of moisture that caught the candlelight. Finally she said, “You really don’t know, do you? You don’t have a clue. All these years you’ve been busy being a priest, teaching and working at a mission . . .” She stopped and looked away. He realized he was holding his breath, waiting for the rest: drinking, trying to recover in Grace House.
She brought her gaze back to his. “You’ve gone on with your life,” she said. He felt a rush of gratitude she hadn’t completed the litany of his life. “Didn’t you wonder? Didn’t you ask yourself any questions?”
He had a sense of floundering, as if he were lost in the expanse of the plains, where everything looked the same, and he couldn’t spot a point of reckoning. “What is it I should understand? What is it I should know?”
She threw her napkin into the center of the table, pushed the chair back, and jumped to her feet. “That you have a daughter,” she said. “You should know that.”
Father John felt his mouth go dry, the air he was breathing turn to dust. He sat stunned, unable to make his legs lift his weight out of the chair. After a long moment he forced himself to his feet and, stumbling against the table, went after her. He caught her in the entry at the door.
“Coming here was stupid.” She yanked open the door. He took hold of her arm, but she wrenched away and slipped outside, breaking into a run down the sidewalk. He sprinted after her and, catching her by the arm again, pulled her to a stop. He clasped her shoulders, holding her tight.
“Don’t go, Megan. We’ve got to talk about this.” In the dim light slipping past the windows, he could see the tears flowing down her cheeks—a river. She was trembling in his arms, crying silently. “Please,” he said.
The Lost Bird Page 8
