The officer gave Robert a slight shove into the backseat, then hurried around and got in behind the wheel. As the police car moved away, headlights blinking into the darkness, a truck banked around Circle Drive and screeched to a stop in the space the car had just vacated.
Leonard jumped out. “You okay, Father?”
“I’m okay,” Father John told him.
“Megan? She okay?” There was a pleading note in his voice.
An image flashed into Father John’s mind: the warrior posted outside the village. If the enemy slipped past, he had failed. It was a mark of cowardice and bad judgment that would stalk his life. “Megan’s going to be fine, Leonard,” he said. “Everything’s okay.”
The caretaker thumped a fist on the truck’s hood. “Pardon, Father, but so long as the killer’s out there”—he nodded toward Seventeen-Mile Road—“things ain’t okay.” He took a step closer. “I talked to my boy, Arnold, and a couple of my nephews. We got a plan to guard the mission.”
“Leonard, it isn’t necessary—” Father John began.
“Beggin’ to disagree with you, Father.” The Arapaho’s tone was polite and humble. “We’re gonna take shifts and keep watch on the place twenty-four hours a day. You’re gonna look out the window in the middle of the night and know one of us is here, makin’ sure nobody comes around. We see anything suspicious”—a quick look at the police chief—“we’re gonna call you guys.”
“Not a bad idea,” Gianelli said.
“Don’t try any heroic stuff.” This from the chief.
Leonard’s face broke into a half-surprised smile, as if he had expected he would have to put up a stronger fight. He turned away and looked out across the mission grounds stretching into darkness. “This here is our place,” he said.
18
Through the ponderosas Vicky could see the Hell’s Corner Dude Ranch: white canopies flashing in the sun, a crowd milling about. She eased up on the accelerator, urging the Bronco around another bend in the narrow mountain road. Branches scratched at the side windows. A line of pickups and vans stood along the right side of the road.
Vicky parked behind the white van with CHANNEL 2 on the rear doors and set out along the line of vehicles, the heels of her pumps teetering on chunks of dirt and gravel. The mournful sound of a flute mingled with the wind sighing in the branches. The air was cool. She clutched her bag in front of her suit jacket, against the wind.
The road emptied into a wide expanse of manicured lawn that struggled to hold back the oncoming ponderosas. Three large canopies stretched over tables with white cloths that flapped in the wind. Under the canopies, waiters in white coats were arranging chairs and setting out trays of food. Groups of people stood around the lawn. Sprawling on the far side was a two-story log cabin with a veranda that extended along the front. A smaller group huddled around the stairs leading to the veranda. Several men shouldered large, black cameras. As Vicky started toward the cabin, she recognized most of the reporters. They had been outside of her office the last couple of days.
Suddenly Sharon David came through the front door. A man and woman—Indian people—were at her side. Arms linked, they walked across the veranda, smiling, bowing into the sun, posing for the cameras below. The actress was in a white dress with a long, flowing skirt and low, ruffled neckline. Her skin was the color of copper; her hair was pulled back and tied with a blue scarf that draped over one shoulder. The woman on the movie screens: the star of The Sky People.
Suddenly the actress caught Vicky’s eyes. She came down the stairs and dodged past the crowd, ignoring the shouted questions, the cameras and microphones thrust in her face. Vicky went to meet her.
“I’m glad you’re here.” The actress took Vicky’s hand. Then she waved over the couple still on the veranda. Together they started down the stairs: the man glancing about, self-consciously patting the sides of a dark suit coat that looked a couple of sizes too large; the woman nodding, smiling, dressed in a tailored green suit with gold buttons that blinked in the sun. For a moment they were lost among the reporters, and then they were free, hurrying across the lawn.
“I want you to meet my parents, Edna and Wylan Linder,” Sharon said as they approached.
“I know Edna.” Vicky struggled for a neutral tone.
Edna Linder was staring at her out of narrow, determined eyes. She seemed tense, coiled like a snake and ready to spring. A woman somewhere in her fifties, Vicky guessed, a few inches shorter than Sharon, with a round, puffy face that almost blurred the defined facial features of the Arapaho. She was a breed. Only part Arapaho.
A year ago she’d walked into Vicky’s office with the same tense look about her and announced she needed a lawyer. The United States attorney was about to charge her with embezzlement. “Just let him try.” Her laugh was hard and defiant. “He’s gonna look like a bigger fool than he is. There’s no evidence.”
She was right. The U.S. attorney had only the allegation of Edna’s coworker in the Tribal Fish and Game Department, but no proof that she had been pocketing license fees paid in cash. Vicky had talked the U.S. Attorney into dropping the charges. She was still trying to collect her fee. Every time Laola called about the bill, she heard a different excuse. Edna had lost her job. Wylan was out of work.
Now Wylan shifted from one foot to the other. Part Cheyenne, he was a slight man, with thin graying hair and pockmarked skin. His chest seemed hollow inside the outsized suit coat. Like a wild animal watching its captors, he cast quick, furtive glances toward the knot of reporters tightening around them, the groups of people wandering over from the canopies.
“I want to thank you for finding our daughter,” Edna said, defiance and contempt mingling in her expression. “Sharon’s done so much for us already.” A glance toward the canopies. “She’s holding a feast for the whole family to celebrate her coming home. She’s a very generous daughter.”
“I’m afraid I can’t take any credit,” Vicky said.
“What do you mean? You’ve been helping Sharon, haven’t you?” A reporter in a dark red suit with wavy blond hair and intelligent eyes pushed forward: the Channel 2 anchorwoman.
Sharon let out a little laugh. Nodding toward the reporters, she said, “You’re the ones responsible. Thanks to your stories, Edna and Wylan were able to find me. I think we should all celebrate.” She threw out one hand in the direction of the canopies. Long, red-tipped nails flashed in the sun. Then, turning to Edna: “Will you lead everyone to the feast?”
A satisfied smile crossed the older woman’s face as she shouldered past the reporters, like a general leading the troops. Wylan started after her, and gradually, the reporters and the rest of the crowd fell in behind.
“Meet me inside,” Sharon said, her eyes on the departing guests. “I’ll get away as soon as I can.” Slowly she started after the others.
Vicky cut across the lawn to the log cabin and let herself through the front door into a spacious living room that ran along the front. Woven Indian rugs lay scattered over the plank floor separating areas of overstuffed couches and chairs and small tables. Massive moss-rock fireplaces stood at each end of the room, and windows framed by blue denim draperies looked out over the lawn. Sounds of voices, little bursts of laughter, floated into the quiet as if from a long distance.
Vicky stood at the edge of the window near the door. Sharon was moving among the tables under the nearest canopy, greeting people, shaking hands. Then she was coming toward the cabin. In a few seconds the door swung open and the actress joined her at the window. She laid one hand against the fold of drapes and stared out at the crowd. The long fingernails looked like splotches of blood on the blue denim.
“Well, what do you think?”
“Do you really want my opinion?”
The actress didn’t respond. Letting her hand fall away, she turned to Vicky. “Edna and Wylan are as phony as these nails.” She held up both hands for inspection.
Vicky stared at her. “What made you think they were
legitimate?”
“I don’t know.” There was a long, dispirited sigh. “Edna sounded so certain. She called me the minute the newspapers came out yesterday. I don’t know how she knew where to find me.”
“Moccasin telegraph,” Vicky said. She hoped the leak hadn’t spouted in her office.
Sharon gave a little shrug. “Edna said she and Wylan had a daughter in 1964. They weren’t married then, just a couple of kids with no money. She delivered the baby at home, then took her to Casper and gave her to social services.” She hesitated. A profound look of sadness and disappointment came into her eyes. “And she said something else.”
Vicky waited.
“She said she always knew I would come back to her.” The actress walked over and sank into one of the overstuffed chairs. “That really got me. I asked her and Wylan to come right over, and when they drove up, I raced out to meet them. You don’t know how I’ve dreamed about meeting my own parents. We sat in this room and talked and talked. I told them to invite anybody they wanted for lunch today. I called you. I wanted to believe.”
Vicky walked over and perched on the arm of another chair. “What changed your mind?”
Sharon spread her hands in her lap, studying the red nails. “I spent the night going over everything they said. They couldn’t agree on when the baby was born. Edna said spring, but Wylan said August. I told them I might have been born in September, and Edna said, oh, yes, she definitely remembered. September. She had been so young, only fifteen. She must have forgotten.” The actress looked at Vicky out of pleading eyes. “Forgotten when her child was born?”
The words hung between them a moment. She went on: “I told them I’d found ‘Maisie’ among my mother’s things. Edna said the social worker’s name was Maisie. Wylan said that was his grandmother.”
Vicky rummaged in her bag for her notepad and pen. “We can check Edna’s story. We have names now. We’ll get Edna’s name before she was married. The intermediary who’s been trying to find your records can check for a birth certificate. We can compare dates—”
“Stop.” Sharon held up one hand. “There’s no point.” She propelled herself out of the chair and walked back to the window. “She’s not my mother, Vicky,” she said, staring outside again. “You see, in some way, I have always known my natural mother.”
She turned slowly. Everything about her seemed sad. “It’s my own fault, bringing in the press. I never should have listened to them. Publicists! They can’t let any opportunity go by. I wanted to cancel the feast, but the publicists got on the phone and insisted I go through with it. ‘Great photo ops,’ they said. ‘Star of movie about Native Americans finds own Native American parents.’ It will be in every newspaper from here to Paris.”
Vicky heard her own sharp intake of breath. She’d guessed the truth. This was a publicity stunt.
“You think I came here to use people.” The actress spoke quickly, as if she had seen into her thoughts. “It’s not true. I want to find my biological parents. The only reason I agreed to go ahead with this farce”—she tilted her head toward the window—“was to put a stop to any other claims like the Linders’. The other phonies will think someone has already gotten a hook into my bank account. But my real mother . . .” For the first time the actress’s eyes welled with tears. “My real mother won’t give a farthing’s ass for my bank account.”
Vicky dropped the pad and pen back into her bag. “I’ve made some inquiries, Sharon,” she said. “The year you were born, a lot of babies from the reservation died. If any baby was adopted outside the tribe, it was done quietly, privately. It’s possible a private adoption was arranged by a local clinic. I don’t know for certain. So far it’s just a hunch. Do you want me to keep looking?”
The actress turned back to the window. She was quiet a long moment. Then: “They’re here somewhere, my mother and father. I know it. I’ll pay you whatever it takes.”
“You’ve paid me enough, Sharon.”
“Well, you’re about to earn your fee,” the actress said. “Here comes Edna Linder.”
There was a clip-clop of footsteps on the veranda. The door swung open and Edna Linder stepped inside. “There you are.” She swung toward Sharon. “Everyone’s asking for you.”
Vicky walked over. “There will have to be tests, Edna.”
“Tests?” The word came like a gigantic burp out of the gaping mouth.
“Blood tests. DNA tests that will prove you and Wylan are Sharon’s parents.”
The woman moved closer to Sharon. “What on earth is this woman talking about? We’ve gone over everything. The dates, the name of the social worker. It all fits. I guess I know my own daughter when I see her. You look just like my dead aunt Ellen. I have photos. You’ll see, you’re the spitting image.”
A barely controlled smile started on the actress’s face. “I’m sorry, Edna. You know how lawyers are. They want to dot all the i’s and cross the t’s, make sure everything is legal.”
Edna drew her lips into a tight, determined line. Straightening her shoulders and turning to Vicky, she said, “We’ll take whatever tests you want.”
19
Vicky guided the Bronco along the shelf road that wound out of the foothills. Below, the rooftops and gold-splashed trees of Lander crept into the plains as far as she could see. Her thoughts were on Edna and Wylan Linder. Opportunists, grabbing the chance for a free ride. Especially Edna. Last year the woman had seized the chance to pocket what was most likely a substantial amount of cash. She’d never admitted she took the money, and Vicky had never asked. When the U.S. attorney dropped the charges, Edna walked away, probably convinced she was more clever than Vicky was. Now she’d agreed to submit to tests—what else could she say?—but neither she nor Wylan would ever take them, Vicky was certain.
And yet . . . There was also the chance they would surprise her. And the tests could prove Sharon was their daughter. Vicky gripped the steering wheel and turned onto the straight strip of asphalt that led into the southern reaches of town. She was struck by the irony. Sharon David, searching for her Arapaho parents and finding Edna and Wylan—part Arapaho, but self-centered and mean. Not like the people.
Slats of sunshine lay over Main Street as Vicky parked in front of her office. She hurried through the warmth of the sun and the cool gloom of the shade, shivering a little as she ran up the stairs and down the corridor. She pushed open the door, nearly hitting Laola, who was on the other side.
“Thought that was you comin’,” the secretary said hurriedly. “I been lookin’ all over for you. Called the dude ranch, and they said you’d left. He’s been waitin’ most the afternoon.”
Ben, Vicky thought. Would he never give up, never stop calling, wanting to see her? And now he was here. She started toward the closed door to her private office.
“Can you believe it?” Laola was behind her. “Two celebrities in the same week. First Sharon David and now . . .”
Vicky stopped and turned toward the secretary. “Who’s here?”
“The famous Dr. Markham.” It was a whisper. “He’s been waitin’ all afternoon. I didn’t know what to say to him! I offered to get some coffee.”
Vicky reached for the doorknob.
“Oh, did I tell you Ben’s been calling?”
“If he calls again,” Vicky said, “say I’m tied up for the rest of the day.” The rest of my life, she was thinking as she pushed open the door.
Across the office, in front of the window, were two men—one, close to seventy, the other still in his twenties. Both were in blue jeans, denim shirts, and hiking boots. The beginnings of a beard shadowed their faces. They might have just trekked out of the mountains. The older man came forward, hand outstretched. The easy sincerity and handsome face, the gray, fatherly eyes and pencil-thin lips, the thick mane of silver hair, like that of a fox—the television camera had caught it all.
“Ah,” he said as he took her hand. She could sense the strength of the man. “You must be Vicky Hol
den. Jerry Markham,” he went on in a tone that indicated no introduction was necessary. Vicky slipped her hand free.
Glancing at the younger man standing behind them, he said, “Allow me to introduce Randy Mitchell from Rock Springs. Best hunting guide in Wyoming. We’ve been elk hunting. It’s bow season, you know. When I checked with my office, I learned you wanted to see me. We drove into town today to replenish supplies, so I took the chance on finding you in. I’m glad we waited.” His gaze traveled over her.
“Please sit down.” Vicky motioned them toward the visitor chairs and took her own chair at the desk. Clasping her hands on the blotter, she waited as they settled in: the guide in the chair on the left, leaning back, gripping the armrests. A bored, yawning look, as if this was something that had to be endured so he could get back into the mountains.
The doctor sat slightly forward, shoulders squared, elbows bent on the armrests, fingers steepled under his chin. “What led you to my office?” His voice was as smooth as falling water.
She said, “A client is searching for her natural parents.”
“Ah, yes.” Markham’s shoulders rose. “Sharon David. I heard the news on the radio. Poor little movie star out promoting her latest movie. I’m sorry for her. Darn shame the studio is using her like that. You do your best work”—he paused, no longer talking about the actress, Vicky realized—“and next thing you know, you’re a celebrity. Publicists taking control of your life. Cameras flashing in your face. Reporters shouting. Everyone wanting a piece of you.”
“I’m surprised the press hasn’t discovered you’re here,” Vicky offered.
The doctor shifted in his chair. “Every year I head up into the high country. Nothing but sheep, deer, elk, and a few bears and mountain lions. I like them all a lot better than I like those vultures with cameras. Incidentally, I’d appreciate your not tipping them off.”
Vicky gave the man an assuring smile. She hoped Laola hadn’t already sent the news over the moccasin telegraph. “My client hasn’t had much luck,” she said, bringing the subject back to Sharon David. “She believes she was born in the area in 1964. She also believes she may be Arapaho. A lot of women from the reservation used your clinic.” She plunged on, not waiting for a confirmation. “It’s hard to imagine any woman giving up her child that year, when so many infants died, but—”
The Lost Bird Page 14
