The Lost Bird

by Margaret Coel

  Vicky sat down next to the man and placed one hand on top of his. It was trembling. The wind muffled his quiet sobs.

  28

  St. Francis Church was filled with people packed shoulder to shoulder in the pews. As Father John came down the center aisle wearing the white vestments of mourning, he heard the barely concealed coughs and nervous clearing of throats. Leonard walked ahead, holding out the Mass book. The Indian stepped up into the sanctuary and set the book on the large drum that served as the altar. Then he moved back, and Father John took his position at the altar, facing the congregation: elders and grandmothers, young couples with youngsters squirming in the pews. Megan sat in a back row, head bowed. To the right of the altar, the singers and drummers were bent over a small drum. Sunlight streamed rays of reds, blues, and golds through the stained-glass windows.

  Father John began the Mass. “Dear Lord,” he prayed, “we ask You in Your kindness and mercy to remember the soul of Joseph Keenan and grant him the peace and joy You have promised awaits those who serve You faithfully on this earth.” There was the soft murmuring of amens, the rhythmic beat of the drum, the voices raised in chants. He glanced at the rows of bowed heads and prayed silently for the lost children, the men and women they had become, and their families.

  At the consecration, he lifted up the small plate filled with pieces of unleavened bread. Behold the Body of Christ. This was the heart of the Mass, of his being: the witnessing of God in the world.

  He finished distributing Communion—placing the small pieces of bread in cupped hands, saying the words: “This is the body of Christ.” Over the sound of people settling back into the pews came the flash of excited voices and a scuffling noise at the entrance. Father John looked up from the prayer book. Heads craned toward the door, toward Sonny Red Wolf striding down the aisle, an usher scurrying behind. “No seats in front.” The usher’s voice was loud in alarm. “You need to stay back.”

  But the Indian kept coming, the look of pure hate on his face. Was this how it was to be? Father John thought. How his life would end? Like that of Archbishop Romero, murdered at the altar? He stood motionless, watching the barrel-chested man coming closer to the sanctuary.

  “Father O’Malley!” Sonny Red Wolf stopped below the altar. The usher stood at his elbow, embarrassment and fear mingling in his eyes.

  “We demand that you take your white man’s religion and leave our land.” There was a stir in the congregation, the scratchy sound of people shifting in the pews.

  “We don’t want you white people here. We been like a bunch of sheep, gettin’ led away from our own Indian religion and our own ways. Now I’m here to lead the people back. I say to you, Father O’Malley, you must go.”

  At the edge of his vision, Father John saw the slender figure of the elder, Will Standing Bear, slide out of a front pew. He walked past Sonny and stepped up to the altar next to Father John. Suddenly the sound of his voice boomed across the church. He spoke Arapaho, the words strange and barely familiar. Father John realized that the elder was speaking in the formal style. It was the style the chiefs in the Old Time had used to speak to the people on important matters.

  Except for the roar of the elder’s voice, the church was quiet. Father John caught enough words to realize that the elder was asking Sonny Red Wolf if he could speak Arapaho. There was a pause. Sonny stared up at the altar with blank, uncomprehending eyes. Then Will Standing Bear switched to an angry tone, scolding the younger man for daring to speak for the people when he could not speak the people’s language. The scolding went on as the elder gestured toward the other elders in the front, saying that Sonny had shown disrespect for them. It was not the Arapaho Way.

  He finished speaking, but remained at the altar. A low rumble of laughter started through the church. It gathered strength, growing into a satisfied hilarity. Father John realized the grandmothers were laughing at Sonny Red Wolf. The grandmothers! Usually it was the grandmothers who protected and encouraged the younger men. They never laughed at them.

  Sonny threw a glance over one shoulder, then the other. A mixture of anger and confusion came into his face, like a slow-burning fire. He swung around and started down the aisle. The front door slammed behind him into the sounds of laughter.

  Will Standing Bear turned to Father John. Wo’-ukohe’i.

  Father John understood the meaning: We welcome you here.

  • • •

  Father John made his way among the people eating sandwiches and drinking coffee at the tables set up in the gym at Eagle Hall. Over against the far wall, a line of people wended past a long table, helping themselves to the roast beef and potato salad, the cakes and cookies the Ladies’ Sodality had prepared. He greeted the grandmothers and elders, patting shoulders and shaking hands. Voices were hushed in remembrance of the priest who had once been among them.

  No one mentioned Sonny Red Wolf, and Father John knew that the news of the man’s shaming was probably already on the moccasin telegraph. Any hope he may have had of getting elected to the tribal council had ended this morning.

  Father John glanced about the gym. He hadn’t seen Megan since the Mass. A little knot of worry tightened inside him. Maybe she wasn’t feeling well. He let a few minutes pass—still no sign of her. He slipped out of the gym. Gianelli had said he’d come by later. The agent might have arrived early and was interviewing Megan. He wouldn’t learn anything. Father John knew she still had no memory of the attack.

  The wind swooped over the grounds, raising little clouds of dirt and gravel as Father John walked down the alley. He passed groups of people on their way to the memorial feast—a quick wave and greeting. Pickups and cars stood bumper-to-bumper along Circle Drive. He could see other pickups turning off Seventeen-Mile Road as he mounted the steps to the administration building.

  • • •

  The building seemed vacant and deserted: the empty corridor, his office with papers sprawled across the desk. There were muffled sounds of voices and motors outside. He walked to Joseph’s office. It looked as if Megan had just stepped away, leaving the spiral notebook opened on the desk, a ballpoint on top, the chair pulled out.

  A loud thump sounded outside, and Father John stepped over to the window. Leonard and Arnold were unloading folding chairs from the bed of a pickup and taking them into Eagle Hall. Groups of people stood around talking. Kids were running about, dodging and tagging one another. Squeals of laughter seemed to come from far away.

  Father John felt himself begin to relax. What was he worried about? The caretaker and his son were keeping an eye on the mission. A couple hundred people were roaming about. Megan was somewhere. He just hadn’t seen her. In the few days she’d been at the mission, he had come to feel like a father hovering over a helpless child. She was not a child, he knew, and he was not her father. Still, he wondered where she was.

  He retraced his steps through the building. Outside he headed back down the alley, annoyed at the illogical urgency building inside him. As he reached Eagle Hall, Leonard stepped through the door.

  “Have you seen Megan?” Father John asked.

  The Indian gave him a hard stare. “I seen her at Mass.”

  “What about since then?”

  Leonard shook his head. “You want me to look for her?” His voice echoed the worry Father John was feeling.

  “Yes,” he said. “Check the guest house. I’ll see if she’s at the residence.” Megan could be in the kitchen giving Elena and the other women a hand with the food. He turned back in to the alley, picking up his pace across the grounds. As he came up the steps, Elena stepped past the screened door carrying a large can of coffee.

  “Is Megan here?” he asked.

  “Megan?” Something new came into the old woman’s eyes—surprise, alarm? “Haven’t seen her all morning.” The phone started ringing inside, and the housekeeper gave a hurried glance over one shoulder, as if she couldn’t decide whether to abandon the question of Megan’s whereabouts for the screeching phone
.

  There was the sound of running footsteps on Circle Drive, and Father John swung around. Leonard started up the sidewalk, chest heaving, arms swinging. “Nobody at the guest house,” he said. “Arnold says he seen her this morning in front of the administration building”—a nod toward the yellow stucco building. “Says she and some white guy was standing by a tan Jeep. My boy figured some friend of hers drove up this way for a visit. There were four-plate tags on the Jeep.”

  Father John felt his breath stop in his throat. The Rock Springs area had license plates that began with the number four. Vicky had said Markham’s guide was from Rock Springs.

  He hurtled past the door and into the entry. Elena was at the hall table, holding out the receiver. “Man says he’s got to talk to you.”

  Father John reached past the woman for the disconnect button. “It’s about Megan,” Elena said.

  He could hear his heart beating as he took the receiver and set it against his ear. “Who is this?”

  “My identity is of no importance, Father O’Malley.” The man’s voice on the other end of the line was self-assured and definite, the voice of someone used to the microphone and an audience. “You have something I want, and I have something you want. It is a matter of a simple exchange.”

  “Listen to me,” Father John said. “I know who you are, Markham. I’m warning you. If you harm her, if you so much as touch her . . .”

  Elena gave a small, stifled cry beside him, and he turned his back to the woman, as if to protect her, jamming the receiver harder against his ear. Leonard was standing inside the door, one fist gripped in the other.

  “Please, Father O’Malley.” The silky, civilized tone again. “You will follow my instructions, and your niece will be returned safely. Please believe me when I say I have no need for her.”

  “What do you want?”

  “There was an audiotape in the possession of Father Keenan. I must have that tape.”

  He had guessed right. Joseph had made some kind of tape. But there was no tape, no recorder, among the man’s things or in his car. Father John had no idea where he might have hidden them.

  “You will bring me the tape, and I will return your niece to you. I believe you will understand the importance of this transaction when I say the tape is as valuable your niece’s life.”

  “Where are you?”

  “You have the tape?”

  Father John drew in a breath. “I have the tape.”

  “Good. You will come immediately to Dickinson Park.” He gave the directions slowly: west out of Fort Washakie, a series of turns to the outfitter’s cabin. “Need I tell you that if you inform the authorities, Father, your niece will die. Such a waste. She is a very pretty young woman. You must understand, it will not be my choice.”

  There was a click, and Father John slammed down the receiver.

  “Is Megan okay?” Elena asked, a little sob in her voice.

  He brushed past the housekeeper and went into the study. Leonard followed. “You gonna call the police?”

  “I’m going to Dickinson Park after her.” He lifted a small box of tapes from the bookshelf behind his desk and started through them. Puccini, Verdi, Berlioz, Mozart. Rummaging. Rummaging. Finally he found the tape he wanted—one on which he had copied his favorite arias. He flipped open the plastic container and removed the card on which he’d listed the titles, then snapped the container shut and slipped it into his jacket pocket. A plain tape. Anything could be on it. He started toward the door.

  “Shouldn’t you call the police, Father?” Leonard stepped back into the hall as Father John walked past. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elena rooted by the phone table, gripping the coffee tin, one hand over her mouth.

  He pushed open the screen door, then turned back, struggling to keep his thoughts rational, logical. “Give me a fifteen-minute head start, then call Gianelli. Tell him Markham and another man took Megan to Dickinson Park.”

  29

  The wheels of the Escort screamed into the wind as Father John drove around Circle Drive, past the line of pickups, the people milling about. The side mirror framed Elena and Leonard on the stoop in front of the residence, Arnold walking purposefully up the sidewalk.

  As Father John turned into the straightaway, the Bronco headed down the center of the road toward him. He hit the brake pedal, and Vicky wheeled in alongside him. She rolled down her window. “I’ve found the evidence, John.” The excitement in her voice carried through the wind.

  “He took Megan!” Father John shouted.

  A sudden look of understanding flashed across Vicky’s face. “Markham!”

  Father John kept his boot on the brake pedal. The sedan was shaking around him, like a bull waiting to burst out of the corral. “She’s at an outfitter’s cabin in Dickinson Park. I’m going after her.”

  In an instant Vicky was out of the Bronco and around the Escort. The passenger door flew open, and wind swooped inside. “I’m coming with you,” she said, sliding onto the seat.

  “Wait at the residence.”

  Vicky kept her face straight ahead. “Just drive. I know a shortcut.”

  He clamped down on the accelerator, and the Escort leaped forward, rocking down the straightaway past the school, past the stop sign, and left onto Seventeen-Mile Road. Except for a pickup glinting in the sun ahead, the road was clear, and he pushed the pedal harder into the floor.

  “They killed Joanne Garrow,” Vicky said, another kind of excitement in her voice. “I saw the news on TV.”

  Father John didn’t respond. He knew that she knew they would also kill Megan. Outside the wind kept up a steady banging noise over the hum of the tires on asphalt.

  “What happened?” Vicky asked.

  Father John held the Escort steady. The wild grasses and scrub brush blurred past. “I don’t know for sure. Markham took advantage of the fact that there were a lot of people at the mission this morning. He sent his guide, the guy from Rock Springs. He must have had a gun on her; Megan wouldn’t have gone otherwise. Markham called five minutes ago. He wants the tape Joseph made.” He glanced at the woman beside him. “Joseph must have gone to see Joanne Garrow and taped the conversation. He probably tried to persuade her to tell the truth. He must have told her he intended to go to the authorities.”

  “But he couldn’t prove any of it,” Vicky said. “The police would check the birth and death certificates. Everything would appear normal. So he had to tape the conversation. Then he must have told her he had the tape. Garrow got nervous and called Markham.” She exhaled a long breath. “Where’s the tape?”

  He slid the plastic box from his pocket and handed it to her. “I’ve got to make Markham think this is what he’s after.”

  “What’s this? The best of opera?”

  He glanced over at her. She was lifting the flap, pulling out the small plastic tape.

  “How long do you think that’s going to fool a man like Markham?”

  “Long enough to get Megan away.”

  Vicky set the tape into his hand, and he stuffed it back into his jacket pocket.

  Vicky said, “We have other evidence, John. I found Sharon David’s father. His name is Russ Mason. He doesn’t want to meet her until the tests confirm that she’s his daughter. Then he’ll give Gianelli a statement that he was told his baby had died.” She talked on about how she’d found the man, how other families might be united through the publicity about Sharon, how Ben might someday find his brother. Ben, Ben, Ben, punctuating her words.

  Father John slowed through Fort Washakie and started the climb into the foothills.

  “Take the dirt road ahead,” she said after a long while. “We’ll drive up the back way.”

  He turned onto the road, still climbing. The hood angled upward. Ahead the road spilled into a meadow of wild grasses ringed with willows and ponderosas. He could see a small log cabin near the trees.

  He pulled in at the side of the road about a hundred feet from the meadow. “Wait h
ere,” he instructed, cutting the motor. He left the key in the ignition.

  “You’re going to walk into that meadow?” Vicky placed one hand on his arm, as if to hold him in the car. “You’ll be exposed. He’ll shoot you.”

  “Not until he gets this.” Father John tapped his pocket and shot her an assuring smile as he got out. Leaning past the door, he said, “If I’m not back in ten minutes, get out of here as fast as you can.”

  He shut the door quietly and started down the road. When he reached the meadow, he cut along the line of trees. There was a cold bite to the wind that whooshed across the open meadow and slammed his jacket against his chest. He worked his way toward the front of the cabin, then set off through the wild grasses. Parked next to the cabin was a tan Jeep and a green sedan. The cabin looked vacant: stone steps leading to a small porch with shaved-log poles that supported the sloped roof. “Markham!” he shouted.

  The front door moved slowly inward. Father John stopped about twenty feet from the steps. A thin man in jeans, wearing a red blanket jacket and black-and-white cowboy boots stepped onto the porch. A white Stetson shaded a smooth-looking face: the jaw jutting forward in an angle of contempt, the eyes dark under the hat brim, and the pinched, scissor-cut mouth.

  “Where is she, Markham?” Father John called.

  The thin mouth broke into what passed for a smile. “I can assure you, your niece is perfectly fine.” He started down the steps. “You have the tape, I trust.”

  “I brought it, but you won’t get it until Megan’s in the car.” Father John nodded toward the trees.

  “I’m afraid you are not calling the shots, Father O’Malley. Give me the tape.” He was in the meadow, moving closer, holding out a thin, well-manicured hand.

  Father John said, “The tape can send you to prison for the rest of your life, Markham. I have the only copy.” The wind gusted around them, like steam bursting from a locomotive. “It’s yours as soon as you let Megan go.”