Father John thanked the woman for the gift of information. Then he picked up his hat and got to his feet. Motioning her to stay in her chair, he let himself out. He didn’t know much more than when he’d come, other than that it seemed Dr. Markham and Dawn James were good at what they did.
23
It was late afternoon when Father John turned in to the mission. As he came around Circle Drive, he spotted the Bronco angled in front of the administration building. He parked beside it, scarcely believing Vicky was there. She must have learned something about Joseph’s murder—a legitimate reason to return. He was immeasurably glad. There was so much he wanted to talk over with her.
As he let himself out, a pickup slowed around the drive and pulled up alongside him. Leonard leaned out the window. “You lookin’ for Vicky, I seen her walkin’ that way.” He waved at the alley between the administration building and the church.
Father John started down the narrow alley. Cottonwood leaves littered the ground and snapped under his boots. Branches swayed overhead in the breeze, a flash of golds and coppers against the blue sky. Vicky was walking ahead, wearing blue jeans and denim jacket, the black bag dangling from one shoulder. Walks-On trotted on his three legs at her side. Suddenly the dog turned and ran toward him. He reached down and patted his head as they walked along.
Vicky had turned around and was waiting. “I’ve got to talk to you in private, John,” she said when he reached her. The dark eyes flashed with intensity. “Can we walk down to the river?”
He set one hand lightly on her arm and guided her back in the direction she’d been heading. Whatever she wanted to talk about was important. He could feel the tension in her. It didn’t surprise him that she wanted to walk to the Little Wind River, where the Arapahos had camped more than a hundred years ago when they had first come to the reservation. It was a sacred space.
They started down a path that wound through stands of cottonwoods and a tangle of red-gold underbrush that spread like smoldering fire beneath the trees. The last of the day’s sunshine dappled the path ahead where Walks-On trotted, tail wagging, his coat a shimmer of gold.
When they reached the riverbank, Vicky stopped and faced him. Her expression was one of barely controlled fury. “What do you know about the black market for infants?” she asked, the tone hard and tense.
“What are you talking about?”
She turned away, as if to gather her thoughts, and stared out across the river at the endless stretch of the gold-drenched plains. The sound of lapping water mingled with the shush of the wind. Finally she looked back. “I believe there was a black market operating here in 1964.”
He was quiet. A black market for babies? The year fifteen infants died? The same year Father Joseph had been pastor of the mission? He took her arm again and led her to a fallen tree trunk. Vicky dropped down on the nubby surface, and he sat next to her. Walks-On stretched at their feet. “Tell me what you’ve found.”
“The infants were buried in sealed caskets,” she said. “I checked with Aunt Rose and called three elders. They all said the elders performed the funeral rituals—the sacred painting and cedar smudging—on the caskets, not the bodies. The families never saw the dead babies. I spent the morning at the library checking the newspapers. The caskets were sealed.”
“Sealed!” Father John said. It was incredible. Beyond imagining. How could such a thing be? From his own experiences—how many funeral services?—the family determined whether the casket would be opened or closed. “The families had the right to see the bodies,” he said.
“The right?” Vicky’s eyes widened in surprise. “You can talk about rights, John. You’re a white man. Thirty-five years ago the people didn’t know they had any rights. The coroner said the caskets had to be sealed. He was the authority—a white authority. No one would have questioned him.”
Father John glanced toward the river, his mind searching for some logical, rational explanation. “Maybe the coroner ordered the caskets sealed to protect the people,” he said. “The water was polluted. It must have carried some infectious virus. Esther Tallman told me her infant died of meningitis.”
Vicky got to her feet and started carving out a small circle in front of him. “All the babies supposedly died of meningitis or some other infectious disease,” she said. “I found the obituaries in the newspapers.” She stopped pacing, dug a piece of folded paper out of her jeans pocket, and handed it to him.
Father John unfolded the paper and glanced through the names. Fifteen infants. Tallman, Holden, Red Feather, other families he knew. Still others he had never heard of. He looked up at Vicky. She had started pacing again. She always paced, he knew, when she was angry or upset.
“The water was polluted all right,” she was saying. “There were several articles about it in the newspapers. The county health department sent out a couple of investigators and did some tests. They concluded the contamination came from the old gold mines in the mountains or from the uranium processing mill that had been here in the fifties. A handy explanation that no one questioned back then. The company that owned the mill denied that possibility, of course.”
Vicky stopped pacing and locked eyes with him. “The water wasn’t contaminated by chemicals. It was contaminated by raw sewage from a housing development near Ethete.” She glanced away a moment. “The county officials had to know. They looked the other way.”
Suddenly Vicky resumed pacing, creating a path between a stand of trees and the fallen trunk. “Don’t you see, John? Jeremiah Markham took advantage of the contamination. There’s always been a black market for healthy, white-looking babies. Couples that can’t adopt any other way, desperate for a child, for a family. Babies are sold for fifty, a hundred thousand dollars today. How much did they bring thirty-five years ago? Fifteen, twenty thousand? A fortune. For that kind of money, there have always been people willing to supply the babies. Doctors like Jeremiah Markham, running private clinics. Lawyers willing to produce false birth certificates and relinquishment papers and other documents to satisfy the courts. Whole organizations devoted to acquiring healthy babies and placing them through independent adoptions with well-heeled couples.”
Father John was quiet a moment. “What makes you so sure it happened here?”
“It happened, John.” Vicky tossed her head in impatience. “There’s no other explanation for the sealed caskets. People were already exposed to the virus. And if the mothers had been exposed, they would have developed antibodies that would have protected the new babies. It’s highly unlikely the newborns would have died.
“The polluted water played right into Markham’s hands.” Vicky stopped circling and stepped toward him. “It was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. People were frightened. They didn’t know what was in their water. It was almost a year before pipes were laid to bring water from a reservoir north of Ethete. But until then, the health department simply issued a warning. People boiled their drinking water. They drove to other parts of the reservation to fill bottles of unpolluted water. Still they couldn’t be sure the water was safe. So when Markham claimed the babies had contracted some infectious disease, no one questioned him. He listed viral infection or meningitis as the cause of death on the death certificates.”
Now Father John was on his feet. He took hold of her shoulders, stopping her as she circled. “There were death certificates?” Her theory was collapsing under the weight of facts.
“Jeremiah Markham is no fool, John.” Vicky gave a hard laugh. “He came to my office yesterday afternoon.”
“He’s here?”
Another laugh. “He says he’s bow-hunting in the mountains. He had a guide with him from Rock Springs.” She shrugged and glanced away. “Markham is very smooth. Just the type of man to make certain everything looked legal. All the proper forms were filed with Vital Records. No loose ends. He needed help, of course. The coroner must have been involved. One David Stresky. He ordered the caskets sealed. I found his obituary in the papers.
He shot himself in December that year. He must have been involved in taking the babies. There was no other reason for him to order the caskets sealed. The nurse who worked for Markham also shot herself. I think she was involved, too. They both knew what was going on.”
Pulling free from his grasp, she started pacing again. “There had to be a lawyer in the scam. Somebody to prepare false birth certificates and relinquishment papers. My guess is that Markham was tied to a shyster somewhere who was involved with the black-market ring.”
Father John turned and walked the few feet to the river. For a moment he watched the water eddy and swirl at the willows along the bank. Walks-On shuffled over and sniffed at his hand. He ignored the dog. He was thinking about Dawn James. Was she involved? Had she suffered a pang of conscience and taken her own life? Or were both she and the coroner murdered?
He looked back at Vicky. She had sat down on the tree trunk, posture stiff with anger, eyes shadowed in exhaustion. Slowly, logically, he told her what he had learned about Dawn James, about her sister’s insistence that she had been murdered, about his own theory that the nurse had confided some secret to Father Joseph.
Vicky propelled herself to her feet. “You’re saying Father Joseph knew?” Her tone was one of rage. “He knew what Markham and his crowd were doing? He knew they were taking the babies? And he didn’t do anything about it?”
Father John held her eyes a moment. “Whatever Dawn James told him, it was in the confessional.”
“He knew!” Vicky gave a shout of pain. “He could have stopped it!”
“I don’t know when he knew. Maybe not until just before Dawn James was killed on September twenty-fifth. He left the following day.”
“It went on after that, John. There were other babies. Ben’s own brother. How could Father Joseph have kept it secret!”
Father John glanced away, his thoughts on the young priest thirty-five years ago, the whispered sins in a small cubicle, the ages-old seal of the confessional, and the crushing burden of secrecy. Bringing his eyes to hers, he said, “Joseph came back, Vicky. He lived with the secret for years and he came back to tell the truth.”
Vicky didn’t say anything. She walked over to the river. The sun had dropped behind the mountains, and streaks of orange and red spread through the sky. The trees were tinged with orange. Finally, her voice low, barely a whisper, she said, “Not all the babies that Markham delivered supposedly died. Aunt Rose said a lot of babies survived. It was only the lighter-skinned babies that Markham wanted. They bring the highest price on the black market. He didn’t know which infants he would take until he saw them. Sharon David’s amended birth certificate lists her as white. All the Holdens are light-skinned.”
Father John could hear the sound of her breathing, controlled and angry. “We have no proof, Vicky,” he said. “It’s only a theory. No court is going to order graves exhumed to see if the caskets are empty without evidence, especially when there are death certificates. And the families—” He shook his head, remembering the shadow of pain in Esther Tallman’s eyes. “Just the idea of having the graves dug up would be horrible.”
“I’ve thought about that.” Vicky turned around. The fury was still in her eyes. “There’s another way. Markham’s business manager still lives in Lander. Her name is Joanne Garrow. She’s an old woman, bitter, mistrustful. I went to see her, and she ordered me off her property.”
Father John flinched at the idea of someone ordering Vicky away. He realized the woman’s name was also on Joseph’s list.
“You could talk to her.” There was a note of insistence in Vicky’s tone. “You’re a priest. She’s been carrying a horrible burden for a very long time. She might welcome the chance to free herself.”
It was possible, Father John knew. Thirty-five years ago a nurse had brought her burden to Father Joseph. And Joseph had brought his burden here. There were times when guilt grew too heavy to carry. He said, “I’ll call and arrange to see her.”
They started back through the cottonwoods. Walks-On ran ahead, disappearing around a bend. The breeze was steady, and a chill invaded the air. “Tell me about Megan,” she said.
A new sense of uneasiness moved through him. This was not a subject he had thought of talking over with her. “Megan’s an architect, lives in Manhattan, twenty-five years old.”
“Who is she?”
“My niece,” he said quickly. When Vicky didn’t say anything, he asked, “What does the moccasin telegraph say?” He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.
“She’s just like you. Red hair and white skin and freckles. Nods her head when somebody’s talking.” He saw her glance up at him. “Like you’re doing now. Rumor is she could be more than your niece.”
He felt chilled. This was what he had feared. The Arapahos would think the Jesuits had scraped the bottom of the barrel and sent the poorest kind of man to them—an alcoholic, a man who had abandoned his own child. Were they not worthy of better?
He felt the pressure of Vicky’s arm on his. They stopped walking and he turned toward her. There was always a faint smell of sage about her, and he smelled it now.
“Listen to me, John,” she said. “I know what bothers you. You want to be the best priest imaginable. You want to be perfect. Is it so bad that the people know you’re human? Is that so bad? Aren’t priests allowed to be human?”
“I was in love with her mother once,” he found himself saying. Confessing. That he had made love to her was a sin he had confessed long ago. He had believed himself forgiven. But now . . . “I don’t know whether Megan is mine,” he said. “When I went into the seminary, her mother married my brother.”
Vicky nodded slowly. Her expression became blank, her eyes unreadable, and he had the sense that she was now seeing someone else, a stranger she might have just met for the first time. “I see,” she said. Nodding. Nodding.
They started back down the path toward the mission. He felt as if an invisible barrier had dropped between them, and it was beyond his power to push it away.
24
“I spoke with Mom today,” Megan said.
Father John set down his mug of coffee and gave the young woman sitting across from him at the kitchen table his full attention. In the white glare of the ceiling light, her eyes took on a violet cast. All through dinner—ham and scalloped potatoes, a feast—he’d been only half listening to his niece. She’d talked on about growing up. The tomboy of the family, playing volleyball and softball, falling out of trees. Other trips to other emergency rooms. He’d prodded her with questions. Kept her talking while his own mind was on what Vicky had told him at the river. The lost children.
Now, as if she knew she finally had his attention and she could take her time, Megan sat back, eyes watchful, studying his reaction.
After a while—one, two, three seconds—she said, “Mom’s never going to tell me the truth. She doesn’t want to face the truth. She figured out why I’m here but refused to talk about it. She talked about the weather, the latest news on my brothers and sisters. Everything but what matters.”
“Megan,” he began, “there are tests that could determine the truth. If you wish . . .”
“I know.” She waved a slender white hand through the air between them. Turning her head sideways, she peered for a long moment at the darkness beyond the window. The old house groaned and shifted in the silence. There was a faraway sound of the clock ticking on the mantel in the living room.
Finally she brought her eyes back. “Last night, when you walked into the emergency room, I thought you were Dad. He was always there when I needed him. Only he wouldn’t have left me alone in the hospital. He would have sat all night outside my door. He’s nuts, your brother.”
“He loves you, Megan.”
“It would kill him, you know.”
He knew. He finished off the coffee, got out of the chair, and refilled his mug. Then he topped off Megan’s mug and sat back down. “You know what I think, Megan?” he began—a gambit. “I thin
k you already know the truth.”
She slid her chair back. The legs made a loud scraping noise on the vinyl floor. “You’re wrong, Uncle John. It’s not that easy. You can’t just pretend the truth is what ought to be.” She shook her head and gave a little laugh. It was mirthless. “You and Mom are just alike. Neither of you wants to face the truth about yourselves.”
“What do you mean?” he said, surprised at the harshness in his voice. They both knew what she was talking about.
“That woman. I saw her on television. She’s the lawyer trying to find Sharon David’s parents.” Another mirthless laugh. “Seems I’m not the only one trying to find out who I am.”
“Vicky Holden is a friend,” he said.
“I saw the look in her eyes when she came into the office asking for you, wanting to know when you’d be back. I saw the two of you walking together—the way she was leaning toward you, looking up at you.”
“We work together on different things.” He started to enumerate the legitimate reasons for them to be together, then stopped. There was no need for explanations.
“I think you’re in love with her, but you won’t face the truth.”
Father John pushed his chair back and got to his feet. Leaning down, he said, “Your imagination’s in overdrive, Megan.”
“You could leave the priesthood.” She rose slowly.
“I’m a priest, Megan.” He kept his eyes on her. “I’m trying to remain faithful to my vows and do my job. Just like your mom and dad. They kept their vows; they did their job. I’m trying to be like them.”
For the briefest moment something new came into her expression—a look of wonderment, he thought.
“Come on,” he said. “You’d better get some rest. I’ll walk you over to the guest house.”
• • •
In the quiet of his study, Father John picked up the phone and punched in the number for Joanne Garrow. He’d tried to reach the woman earlier, but no one answered. Now he listened to the intermittent ringing. Still no answer. He glanced at his watch. Almost eight-thirty. In fifteen minutes he would try again.
The Lost Bird Page 17
