The Lost Bird
Page 23
Father John waited with Esther Tallman a few feet from the open grave. It was marked by a small wooden cross with the words GEORGE REDWING TALLMAN, BELOVED SON. Gathered close by was the Tallman clan—Esther’s children and grandchildren, nieces and nephews. Their pickups and trucks lined the narrow road circling the perimeter of St. Francis Cemetery. A warm wind swept across the bare-dirt cemetery, rattling the plastic flowers and tossing little spirals of dust into the air. It whipped at the back of Father John’s windbreaker.
Banner and Gianelli stood at the edge of the opened grave, their eyes on the man shoveling dirt into a growing pile at their feet. Close by were a couple of U.S. attorneys, the local lawyer representing Benson, and two lawyers in blue suits and tasseled loafers, gray with dust, who had flown in from Los Angeles to represent Markham.
Suddenly Gianelli turned away and walked over. “It’s just what we expected,” the agent said. His voice was nearly lost in the swoosh of the wind. “Nothing in that coffin except a few rocks.”
Banner joined the agent. The police chief’s face was flushed, his eyes angry. Turning from side to side, like a chief in the Old Time addressing the people, he said, “We got the evidence to put those bastards into hell.”
Father John slipped an arm around Esther’s shoulder. She was trembling. “All these years I been thinkin’ of my boy like he was livin’ somewhere else.” She spoke so quietly, he had to bend his head to hear what she was saying. “Every day I wonder, what’s he gonna do today? Maybe he’s gonna take a trip to some place far away. Maybe he’s gonna see the world. Or maybe he’s gonna ride his pony out on the plains. Every day I think he’s doin’ something different.” She straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. Peering at some point on the horizon, she said, “He’s thirty-five years old now. He’s tall and handsome like his father.” She gave a little sob.
The other members of the clan started forward, arms reaching for the old woman. Father John stepped back as the family embraced her, enclosed her in their circle. He watched a moment, then started along the rows of graves toward the center of the cemetery, where another man was shoveling dirt. The Holden grave was also being exhumed. “We can establish a pattern by exhuming two graves,” Gianelli had explained earlier. There was the steady, monotonous scrape of a metal shovel against the hard-packed dirt.
Across the cemetery, Father John could see a line of pickups snaking along the road, a brown truck in the lead. It passed the parked vehicles of the Tallman clan and stopped. The driver’s door snapped open, and Ben Holden got out, tall and confident looking in dark blazer and tan cowboy hat. He strode around the truck and pulled open the passenger door. His eyes never left the woman inside.
Father John stood still, barely aware of the pickups moving along the road and obscuring his view for half seconds. He watched Vicky slide out of the truck and wait as Ben closed the door behind her. She was looking up at Ben, telling him something, and he leaned toward her. There was an air of expectancy and solicitude about him, like that of a lover.
It was as it should be, Father John thought. She had the right to some happiness. She had the right to reclaim her own family, to reclaim the man who had once been her husband and who still wanted her. Of course Ben wanted her.
Father John pulled his gaze away and stared across the cemetery at the expanse of plains that ran into the horizon and melted into the everlasting blue sky. The days and weeks and months ahead would be filled with work, he told himself. There would be counseling sessions, prayer services and special Masses, the registry to get up and running. There would be no time for his thoughts to drift into what ifs or maybes. The people here needed him; he had obligations and he would honor them. They would consume him.
A gust of wind caught at his windbreaker. He pulled up the zipper and started again toward the grave. The attorneys had already positioned themselves close to the edge. Members of the Holden clan were also making their way along the rows of graves and, out of the corner of his eye, Father John saw Gianelli hurrying over. From behind came the scuffing sound of footsteps, and then the blue flash of Banner’s uniform at his side.
“The Holden clan’s here.” The chief sounded out of breath.
“I know.”
“Vicky’s come with ’em.”
“I know.”
“Moccasin telegraph says Ben and Vicky might be gettin’ back together.”
“I know.”
They stopped. In the other man’s eyes, Father John saw the quiet look of understanding. He rested a hand on the chief’s shoulder and said, “Thanks, Banner.” Then he turned and went to meet the Holden clan.
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