When Vicky finished, Father John told the agent about Father Joseph: how he had returned to St. Francis and gone to see Garrow, how he had taped the conversation, how Markham had contacted Luther, who lured Father Joseph out to Thunder Lane and shot him. Then Markham probably panicked and sent his hunting guide to the mission to find the tape, and the guide had attacked Megan.
Gianelli slipped one hand into his jacket pocket and withdrew a plastic audiotape box. “This the tape you’re talking about.”
Vicky let out a little laugh. “You’re an opera fan, Gianelli. You’ll like that tape.”
The agent lowered his head and looked up, shifting his gaze from Father John to Vicky. “You came out here to get Megan with a phony tape? You could’ve all been killed. When are you gonna . . .” He let the thought trail off and took in a long breath. “Okay, okay. Somewhere on that mission, Father Joseph hid the real tape. Not in his office. Not in his bedroom, and probably not where somebody else would’ve seen it or accidentally picked it up. So you tell me, John, where are we going to find it?”
“If I knew the answer—” Father John stopped. He did know the answer. Father Joseph had left the tape where no one would find it, except, possibly, another priest.
31
“Wait here,” Father John said.
The small group stood in front of the church—Vicky and Megan, Gianelli, Banner, and Leonard and Arnold. Shadowy figures in the fading gray light. He walked up the steps and let himself through the heavy wooden doors. The church was dark. A tiny red light flickered in front of the tepee-shaped tabernacle on a table in the sanctuary.
He flipped the switch inside the door. Soft white light flooded down the aisle and lapped across the pews as he turned toward the door on the right. A bronze-colored sign in the center said RECONCILIATION ROOM. He opened the door and flipped another switch.
In the middle of the closet-sized room were two chairs, side by side. Between them, a wooden grate with armrests on both sides. He had spent hours in this room, sitting in the chair on the far side of the grate, leaning on the armrest, listening to the fears and pain, the regrets and sorrows, the firm amendments to sin no more.
He glanced around the room: the cream-colored stucco walls, the crucifix hanging above his chair, the painting of Jesus with black hair and the sharpened features of the Arapaho—a forgiving Jesus, arms outstretched toward the people. He walked around the chairs, checking the legs, the stand on which the grate was balanced. No sign of a tape.
He sat down on the priest’s side and leaned toward the grate. The church was perfectly still. A faint smell of cedar lingered in the air. He ran his hand along the top of the armrest, then underneath. Nothing but smooth, vacant wood. Then his fingers touched the hard lump jammed against the stand beneath the armrest. He slid out of the chair and down onto one knee. Gray duct tape held a small plastic box against the stand. Taped next to the box was a pocket-sized recorder.
He pulled the duct tape back slowly and slipped out the plastic box. Then the recorder. Holding them in one hand, he got to his feet and retraced his steps, snapping off the lights as he went. Outside he handed the box and recorder to Gianelli. “Here’s your proof beyond a reasonable doubt,” he said.
• • •
Gianelli’s Jeep led the parade of vehicles around Circle Drive: the chief’s police car, Leonard’s pickup. Megan turned away silently and started down the alley toward the guest house, leaving Father John and Vicky standing in front of the church. He took her arm, and they started across the grounds to her Bronco out on the straight stretch of road where she had left it.
“The media will have a feeding frenzy,” she said. “Movie star stolen from parents as infant finds Indian father after thirty-five years. No publicity department could have dreamed up a better public relations campaign.” She stopped and turned to him. In the shadows, he saw the light dancing in her eyes. “There are others like Sharon, looking at themselves in the mirror, wondering where they belong. Maybe they’ll find their way home.” They started walking again. “Like the birds,” she said quietly.
They reached the Bronco, and he opened her door. The keys still dangled from the ignition, a flash of silver in the gathering darkness. She slid inside, and holding the door, he leaned toward her.
“Vicky,” he began, reluctant to let her go, searching for the words that would allow her to return, that would ensure they could still be friends. “I wish it hadn’t happened. I wish Father Joseph . . .”
She reached out and touched his hand. “I know,” she said.
32
Arectangle of light from the lamp fell over the study, framing the desk and wingback chairs, a patch of carpet. The residence creaked into the night. Father John read again through the names Vicky had given him. Esther and Thomas Tallman. Rayleen and Lucas Holden. Betty and Cyrus Elk. Marie and Russ Mason . . . The list covered the page. A litany of loss. The next weeks would be filled with prayer services and counseling sessions for families riven again by the pain of thirty-five years ago.
The moccasin telegraph had beaten the nightly television news with the story: famous doctor and well-known local attorney arrested on charges of kidnapping, interference with parental custody, endangerment of a child, conspiracy. Murder charges were pending. Hunting guide held on charges of kidnapping, burglary, assault with a deadly weapon, conspiracy.
The phone had hardly stopped ringing. Voices hushed with shock. Could the unspeakable be true? He promised to let people know the minute he had any more news. He promised to schedule a special Mass where everyone could come together to grieve and pray for courage. He’d refilled his coffee mug two, three, four times—he’d lost count—trying to bolster his own courage.
Another jangle into the quiet. Reluctantly he reached for the receiver.
“John?”
He knew the Provincial’s voice. “How are you, Bill?” he said.
“I expected you to be on a plane to Boston.” The voice was sharp with impatience.
“Yes, well, there’s been a new development. The FBI and police have arrested Joseph’s murderer.”
“I’m watching CNN, John. I’m listening to a reporter standing in front of the Lander courthouse talking about how a mission priest led the authorities to an alleged murderer and operator of a black-market baby ring. What is going on out there?”
“Trust me, Bill. It’s over. The mission will soon be back to normal.”
“Trust you? Trust you?” the Provincial’s voice boomed through the line.
Father John moved the receiver a couple of inches away. “Remember, Bill, you don’t have anyone else who wants this job.”
He hung up, folded the list of names, and set it in the center drawer. Just as he was about to switch off the light, a soft knock sounded, and Megan slipped past the door, into the scrim of light. She perched on one of the wingback chairs. She had tied her hair back, but a couple of red curls corkscrewed around her face. The blue eyes were filled with pain.
“You okay?” he asked.
She gave a little nod. “Not really. I keep thinking about that jerk outside the church this morning. How he came up behind me and rammed something hard in my back and said, ‘Just walk real ladylike to the tan Jeep over there.’ I was shaking all over, I was so scared.”
She had told him the same story earlier. It had produced the same stab of guilt that he felt now. “Megan,” he said, allowing her name to float in the air a moment, like a melody. “I’m so sorry about everything that has happened to you here.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” She shook her head. “Besides, you came after me today. You know, Uncle John, that was a very dumb thing to do. You could have gotten killed. It was just what my dad would’ve done.”
She catapulted to her feet and walked to the window, beyond the light. Turning back, she said, “I didn’t tell you that I called Mom this morning before Mass. I told her if she didn’t tell me the truth, I would never go home again. She said I didn’t have to threate
n her, that she’d already decided to tell me. So . . .” She paused. “Now I know what happened.”
Father John didn’t say anything. The silence drifted into the shadows. After a moment she walked back and stood in front of the desk. “Promise me you won’t tell Dad that I ever doubted . . .” She stopped. Her eyes glowed feverish in the light. “Promise me you’ll keep this a secret. I don’t want to hurt him.”
He nodded. “A good secret to keep.”
She exhaled a long breath. “I’m going home for a while before I go back to New York. I’m leaving tomorrow, right after the court hearing for Markham and the others. But I’ll be back to testify at the trials.”
Father John got up, walked around the desk, and took her hand. He would miss this niece of his, this part of himself. “When you come back, the guest house will be yours. It will probably be quiet around here.”
“Quiet,” she repeated. “Well, that will take some getting used to.”
33
“He’s not going to come,” Sharon David said.
“He’ll be here.” Vicky glanced at the profile of the woman next to her in the Bronco: large, black sunglasses balanced on the bridge of her nose, blue scarf wrapped turban-style around her head. A movie star.
Outside the window the pale yellow sun arched into a morning sky of clear-rinsed blue. Vicky had picked up the actress at the dude ranch at a quarter to six—more than an hour ago. They had driven to Ethete and turned down the dirt road to the Sun Dance grounds. Clumps of scrub brush dotted the grounds, and dried leaves scuttled in the breeze. This was where Russ had said he wanted to meet his daughter—a sacred place.
There was no sign of reporters. No cameras or microphones, no shouted questions. After Markham’s arrest last week, hordes of reporters had descended over the area. They camped outside the courthouse and swarmed over the reservation. They set up a permanent post outside the dude ranch and outside her office.
She had become adept at dodging microphones and ignoring cameras. Her own face stared at her from television screens and the front pages of newspapers, along with photos of Sharon David darting into the ranch house, Gianelli caught midway up the stairs of the courthouse, and John O’Malley hurrying across the mission grounds.
“I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t come.”
“He’ll come,” Vicky said. Then: “Why do you say that?”
“What happened changed his life. It changed mine. I don’t blame him for not wanting to try to remake the past. It’s impossible, you know.”
Vicky nodded. She did know.
“Nothing can make it all right,” the actress went on. “I lost the chance to grow up here with my own mother and father, my own family, my own people. My father lost his daughter. And more. He lost his wife. Nothing can change that. It doesn’t matter what happens to the famous Jeremiah Markham and the others.”
“You’re wrong, Sharon,” Vicky said. “It does matter. Markham will spend the rest of his life in prison, where he belongs.” She didn’t say that he would probably be sent to a medium-security federal prison. The doctor was willing to explain everything in exchange for such a sentence. He was already leading Gianelli and the U.S. attorney through the tangled web of a black market that extended from the clinic in Lander to Denver, Seattle, San Francisco, and Los Angeles—the cities where he had sent Dawn James to deliver the tiny infants. And the doctor was willing to testify against Luther Benson, who would probably also spend the rest of his life in prison. No doubt the doctor would also testify against his hunting guide, who had been charged with kidnapping, assault, breaking and entering, and theft.
“Let’s go, Vicky,” Sharon said. “My father doesn’t want anything to do with me, and I can’t blame him.”
“That’s not true.” Vicky let her window down a few inches. The cool morning air washed inside, restoring her own confidence. She glanced at her silver wristwatch. It was past seven. “He’s your father. He’ll be here.” Yesterday Vicky had received the laboratory report on DNA tests that proved Sharon David was the daughter of Russ Mason.
“Let’s go.” The actress shrank against the door, behind the dark glasses, the swirl of blue silk around her hair. “I’ve been looking for my parents for a long time. When I came here, I knew I had come home. I had found the missing part of myself. I was one of the people. It will have to be enough.” She groped for the door handle. “If you don’t start the car, I’ll get out and walk.”
Vicky turned the key dangling from the ignition, sensing the reluctance in her fingers. The engine came to life, and the Bronco started forward across the bare dirt, bouncing over washboard ruts. The leaves crackled like fire beneath the tires. A gust of wind washed over the hood and roof as she wheeled toward Ethete Road.
A brown truck was slowing on the road. It turned and started toward them. Russ Mason was behind the wheel. The silver band on his cowboy hat sparkled in the sun.
Vicky rocked to a stop. Over the shush of the breeze, she heard the gasps of the woman next to her. The truck slid to a stop a few feet away. Russ got out and stood for a moment at the opened door—head high, shoulders back, like a warrior. He had on a black cowboy hat, a white shirt with a silver bolo tie dangling in front, and sharply creased blue jeans stacked over black cowboy boots. Raising his right hand, he tipped his hat toward the woman on the passenger side.
Sharon yanked off her sunglasses and tossed them onto the dashboard. They clanked against the windshield. Then, dipping her head, she began unwinding the blue scarf. She tossed it over the glasses, where it rippled like water in the sun. She ran her fingers through her black hair, letting it fall free around her shoulders, and pressed her palms against her cheeks a moment. Her hands were unadorned, the nails clear.
Drawing in a long breath, she got out and closed the door. Vicky watched as Russ stretched out his arms and Sharon David stepped into them.
After a moment they started walking away. In the rearview mirror, Vicky caught them moving toward the Sun Dance area, arm in arm, heads bent together—nodding, nodding.
She stepped on the accelerator and drove around the truck. In the breeze drifting past her window came a faraway murmur of voices and the tinkling of laughter as high and light as the whistle of an eagle bone.
34
Father John said the prayers of the Mass slowly. He offered the prayers for the people and for Cyrus Elk. Yesterday Father John had stopped in at the hospital. The old man was unconscious, but Father John had talked to him anyway. He’d told him that the son he had thought he’d lost thirty-five years ago was alive somewhere. Cyrus had seemed to relax, his expression became calmer, his sleep quieter. Father John wasn’t surprised when the call came later from Cyrus’s granddaughter saying the old man had passed away.
The congregation joined in the prayers, a reverent murmuring that filled the church. Leonard stood at his elbow, the musicians huddled around the drum beating out the rhythms of the hymns, voices high-pitched and mournful. When he walked to the lectern, a cloud of quiet fell over the pews. He had spent last evening working on the sermon, coaxing out of himself the words he wanted to say. Later on today, two graves would be exhumed in St. Francis Cemetery.
Now he pushed his notes aside and clasped his hands, looking out over the upturned faces. “You are a people who have suffered much,” he began. “There were times in the past when your children were taken from you. Now they have been taken again from you.”
He stopped. His eyes roamed the congregation. Sitting in a front pew were the Mason family: Sharon David, Russ, a middle-aged woman, and two teenaged girls who looked a lot like the movie star. Vicky sat in a back pew. Beside her, shoulders erect, head angled slightly in suspended judgment, was Ben Holden. The narrowed black eyes in the handsome face, watching him.
Father John went on: “May God have mercy on those who were a party to this injustice. May God have mercy on those who knew and did nothing.”
A hush fell over the church, as if breath itself had been stopped
. He saw Vicky’s eyes close, her head drop. He said, “Please try to remember that the Shining Man Above does not forget you. In your pain, please try to remember His love for you.”
As Father John stepped back, Will Standing Bear rose from the front pew and walked to the lectern. He cleared his throat—a low growl into the microphone, echoing across the church. “We have heard the words you say to us, Father. We take them to our hearts, and they comfort us. Now we must think what we are to do for the future. We believe our children are alive. We believe they will return someday, just like Sharon David has come home to the people.”
He was quiet a moment, drawing in a long breath. “We’re gonna start a registry.” The words boomed through the church; people moved in the pews, reaching out, clasping hands. “Arapaho families and people that have been adopted can put their names on the registry. We’re gonna try to get families matched up. We’re not gonna stop workin’ till all our children out there”—he waved toward the stained glass windows and the world beyond—“find their way home.”
The elder brought the snake of the microphone closer. “I’m askin’ Father John here to keep our registry at St. Francis. Everybody’s gonna know exactly where it is. Won’t be no confusion. The registry’ll be in the same place, don’t matter how long it takes for families to get matched up.” The old man glanced back at Father John. “I’m askin’ you, Father, to do this for the people.”
Father John kept his gaze on the elder: the black eyes as deep as pools, the leathery face. He searched for the words. “Thank you for your trust,” he managed.
• • •
The Lost Bird Page 22
