The Eagle Catcher

by Margaret Coel

  A variety of geometric symbols covered the vaulted ceiling: red lines for human beings; long blue lines for the roads humans must travel; yellow lines for the heavens; blue and yellow triangles for the morning star that connects heaven and earth. The floor was paved in light blue carpet, the color of the sky.

  He crossed to the other side and pushed open those vents, drawing in a good cross breeze. Then he made his way down the center aisle checking for anything left in the pews. The kettle drum altar stood at the far end of the church. The people had insisted on the kettle drum. “Prayers will rise to the heavens, just like drumbeats,” Will Standing Bear had told him. On the table to the left sat the tabernacle, a miniature white tipi the grandmothers had shaped out of soft deerskin. The arched ceiling over the sanctuary was trimmed with a yellow band that marked the space below as sacred.

  Father John knelt down in the front pew and bent his head over his hands. He had offered Mass this morning for Harvey’s soul, and now he prayed again, silently, for his friend and for Harvey’s family. For a moment he felt at one with the peace at the center of himself, that place where the most important part of him lived, where he was a priest, a servant of the servants of God.

  Exhaling a deep breath, Father John raised himself off his knees and walked over to the sacristy, the little room next to the altar. Then he removed his green chasuble and white mantle and hung them in the closet next to a row of vestments, different colors for the different Sundays of the church year. After checking to see that the altar boys had placed the missalology and sacramentary in the cabinet, he walked back through the church and out the front door.

  The buildings of St. Francis formed a circle, like an Arapaho camp, like all sacred things. The front door of the white stucco church faced the mountains, but its altar faced east and the rising sun. Outside walls were also stenciled in the geometric symbols that reached back into the oldest of times.

  To the south stood the mission’s first building, the school. The two-story gray stone structure hadn’t been used in thirty years. It stood empty and boarded up, but every time Father John suggested demolishing it, the old people raised an outcry. They had learned to read and write there. Their young breath still clung to the walls. Young voices echoed in the hallways. So the building remained, abandoned, sagging on its foundation. He tried his best to replace the broken windows and keep the doors on their hinges. If the truth were known, he had become as attached to the old building as the Arapahos were.

  The administration offices, a white brick building, stood on the northern curve. His office was there, and Father Brad’s.

  Next to the building was the asphalt court where Arapaho kids played basketball. Behind it sat several squat white buildings for adult classes and meetings. On the western curve, next to the two-story red-brick house where the priests lived, stretched the open field where, six summers ago, Father John had marked off the pitcher’s mound, home plate, first, second, and third bases. Then he had started the St. Francis Eagles. The Indian kids needed a baseball team to play on, he’d reasoned, but the truth was he needed a baseball team to coach. Beyond the field was the new St. Francis School, a one-story building with an entry that jutted forward. It was shaped like a tipi.

  Cottonwoods, Russian olives, and evergreens cast long, cool shadows across the buildings and grounds, turning the mission into an oasis on the plains. Father John relished the quiet, and the soft sound of the wind rustling the leaves. A short distance to the southeast, on the banks of the Little Wind River, Chief Black Night and his people had camped when they first came to Wind River Reservation. It was Chief Black Night who had given the Jesuits enough land for a mission. “We would be glad of some good man to teach our people about the Great Spirit,” he had said, according to one of the documents in the mission archives. HeeniNouhu’, Arapahos called the priests. It meant “long garments.”

  The sun crested overhead, and white fluffy clouds floated across the sky like cotton blowing off some giant cottonwood tree. On the western horizon, the Wind River Mountains shimmered in the iridescent yellow light. The breeze was steady, bending the wild grasses alongside Circle Drive. It never stopped blowing on Wind River Reservation, it seemed. He was used to it now.

  Maybe he could catch thirty minutes of the Red Sox game. Television wasn’t Fenway Park, but it was better than nothing. He intended to drop by Harvey’s ranch later, have a few words with Anthony. With a little luck, he’d discover that the young man had calmed down and come to his senses by now. He had to learn to trust the people trying to help him, like Vicky. There was always hope.

  Father John didn’t recognize the white Miata in front of the house, but tourists often dropped by St. Francis. It was a historic site at the eastern edge of Wind River Reservation, a jumping-off point for a drive through Indian country. He’d get rid of whoever it was as quickly as possible. He wasn’t in the mood for tourists today.

  “Somebody’s waitin’ in the study,” Elena said as he came up the front steps to the small porch. A sudden gust took the screen door and slapped it against the brick siding. The housekeeper followed the door out, propping herself against it. Somewhere in her sixties—even she wasn’t sure of her age—Elena was part Arapaho, part Cheyenne, short and stocky with a smooth, round face and wavy gray hair cropped close to her head. She had on a pink housedress cinched around the middle with a white apron, its pockets bulging. The shoelaces from her black oxfords trailed onto the porch.

  Elena had been the housekeeper at St. Francis for twenty-five years, outlasting numerous Jesuits in that time. She ran the house on her own schedule: breakfast at 7, lunch at noon, dinner at 6. There were days for cleaning, shopping, laundry. Father John did his best to stay in step, but it wasn’t easy, not the way things popped up unexpectedly on the reservation.

  “Father Brad know someone’s here?” he asked, stepping into the front hallway. It was at least ten degrees cooler inside.

  “Hmmmph. He’s out runnin’ round in blue shorts like some crazy man. He ain’t got the sense God gave rattle-snakes. Least they know to stay out of the midday sun.”

  Elena laid a hand on his arm, as if to steer him toward the kitchen. “You come and eat your lunch first. You ain’t had nothin’ to eat this morning. She can wait.”

  “I better see what she wants. It’ll only take a minute,” he said, nodding toward the closed door of the study.

  “Well, that’s just fine.” Elena padded past him and down the hallway, shoelaces flapping against the linoleum floor. “Poor Harvey’s dead, that young priest’s out runnin’ himself to death, and now you’re starvin’ yourself to death. Lord only knows what’s goin’ on around here.”

  Melissa Bennett turned swiftly as Father John came into the study. She was standing in front of the wide window that framed a stretch of the Wind River Mountains. Sunlight shone through her blond hair, lacing the strands into intricate webs. She had on a light-blue T-shirt and white jeans that were so tight he wondered how she could breathe. He wasn’t surprised to see her. He realized that at some level he had been expecting her.

  The young woman bolted across the room. “Mind if I close the door?” she asked. Before she slammed it, he caught a glimpse of Elena running a dust cloth over the table in the hallway. She never dusted on Sundays.

  “I’ve got to talk to you in private.” Melissa leaned against the door, as if to make sure it stayed closed.

  “Have a seat.” He motioned her to the blue wing chair beside the desk.

  “No, thanks.” She started pacing the room. “I can’t sit down. I can’t eat. I can’t think.” She stopped and looked up at the ceiling a moment, then leveled her gaze at Father John. “Anthony was with me Friday night.”

  “I think I’ll sit down, Melissa, even if you don’t,” Father John said, easing himself downward into the worn leather chair behind the desk. He was wondering where, within a hundred miles, this young white woman and an Arapaho man could spend the night together. Not on the reservation and
not at some motel in Riverton or Lander. Not if they wanted to keep the romance a secret.

  Melissa started pacing again and, as if reading his thoughts, said, “We stayed at the old cabin out on the ranch. Uncle Ned keeps it just like it was in his great-granddaddy Mathias’s day. You know how Uncle Ned is about old things. It’s full of all the original stuff—dishes, table, chair, the bed.” Melissa cleared her throat, then hurried on. “The ranch hands use it sometimes when they’re out calving. Anthony and I have been using it since last summer. Nobody knows, of course.” She was carving out a circle around the wing chair. “I’m sorry if that shocks you,” she said.

  “Believe me, I’m not shocked,” Father John said. After pushing aside the piles of paper on the desk to form a clear space, he clasped his hands on the brown blotter in front of him and waited for her to go on.

  “Anthony and I love each other,” she said. “We’re going to be married. We had intended to tell our families this weekend.” Finally, Melissa lighted on the arm of the wing chair. “Anthony told his uncle first. That’s when everything fell apart. Harvey went ballistic. He said to forget it. There was no way his nephew was going to marry into the Cooley family.” Melissa looked steadily at Father John. “He didn’t even know me.”

  “Don’t take it personally, Melissa.”

  “Don’t take it personally? How am I supposed to take it? My uncle was the one supposed to say that no niece of his was going to marry an Indian. I was ready for that, but not for what Anthony’s uncle said. They got into a big fight about it. First at the ranch. Then at the powwow.”

  “Did you tell your mother?”

  Melissa shrugged. “Mom’s just like Uncle Ned. Sure, she volunteers at the Blue Sky Hall. But she’s a Cooley, and the Cooleys are like feudal lords. She’s not going to be thrilled about her daughter marrying one of the serfs. Anyway, I never told her. I mean, if Harvey reacted the way he did, what would Mom and Uncle Ned do? What we decided was—well, we decided we’d just get married in Laramie and then tell everybody. They could accept it or not. It would be up to them.” Melissa popped off the arm of the chair and, combing her fingers through her hair, started circling again.

  Father John waited. Years of counseling had taught him that people needed time to sort their thoughts. Silence did not have to be filled with words.

  “Yesterday, soon as I heard Harvey had been murdered, all I could think of was that Anthony had fought with him. Then I heard Anthony had been arrested. I was so scared. I jumped in my car and was halfway to Fort Washakie before I realized the minute I walk into Chief Banner’s office, everybody’s gonna know about Anthony and me. Then everybody’s gonna think Anthony killed his uncle because he didn’t want us to get married.”

  Father John pushed back on the leather chair, lifting the front legs off the carpet. “So you’d be handing Banner a motive for Anthony to kill his uncle.”

  “That’s what scares me,” Melissa said.

  She walked over to the window and stood with her back to him, almost talking to herself. “I don’t know what to do. Anthony will never tell anybody he was with me. He won’t want me involved.” Glancing back at Father John, she said, “He’s the most stubborn Indian I ever met.”

  Father John smiled. “You got that right.”

  Melissa came back across the room. This time she flopped down onto the cushion of the wing chair. “It’s so unfair,” she said, shaking her head. “I mean, if Harvey hadn’t blown up like that, there never would have been a fight, and Anthony wouldn’t be a suspect.”

  Father John let his chair drop back on all four legs and leaned his elbows onto the desk. Obviously Melissa hadn’t heard about Anthony’s hunting knife.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Melissa went on. “I’m really sorry Harvey was murdered. I mean, it’s so horrible. Who would do such a thing? Anthony loved his uncle, you know, ’cause he helped raise him. So it’s going to be really hard for Anthony. Just the same, I wish—”

  “You wish Harvey would have approved of you and Anthony,” Father John finished her thought. Melissa nodded. There were tears in her eyes and she was obviously making an effort to hold them back.

  “I’ve always loved Anthony,” Melissa said quietly. “Ever since my folks got divorced and Mother brought me back to the ranch. Anthony and I became friends right away, even though we knew we were off limits to each other. I mean, we were only twelve and we knew.” She brushed her fingers through her hair again.

  “Anthony taught me to ride,” she said, keeping her eyes fixed on a pile of papers on the desk. “All those white instructors Uncle Ned hired didn’t know diddley about handling horses. Anthony knew everything.” The shadow of a smile played at the edges of her lips as she talked.

  “Then I went back east to boarding school and college, and I hardly ever saw Anthony. But when I transferred to the university, we started meeting for coffee. Just to talk. I was kind of uncomfortable about being at a big school. Anthony had been in Laramie three years, and he knew the ropes.” She glanced up at Father John and took a deep breath before going on.

  “Then about a year ago, we were able to get around that ‘off limits’ sign, and we admitted to each other how we really felt.” Melissa broke into a smile for the first time since he’d walked into the study. “We’ve been together since. And we were together Friday night.”

  “Anthony was with you all night?” Father John wasn’t sure why he’d asked, except it would be the first question the FBI agent would ask. Nothing added up about Harvey’s murder. An air-tight alibi for Anthony was almost too much to hope for.

  “What do you mean?” Melissa looked startled.

  “You can testify that Anthony didn’t leave the cabin all night?”

  “He didn’t leave,” she said. “He went outdoors for a while, but he didn’t leave.”

  Father John made a fist and blew into it. This was what he had been afraid of. As if she sensed this wasn’t good news, Melissa hurried on. “We took a blanket outside and laid on the ground to watch the stars, that’s all.”

  “Melissa, Superman couldn’t have seen the stars that night.”

  “We were watching for them to come out. Anthony likes to do that. I stayed out with him for a while, but it got so cold I went back inside to bed.”

  “How long was he out alone?”

  “I don’t know.” Melissa threw both hands in the air. “Thirty minutes or so. What does it matter? He didn’t leave.”

  Father John blew into his fist again, calculating in his head the distance between the Cooley ranch and the Ethete powwow grounds. Not even Anthony could sprint up to Ethete and back in thirty minutes, but it could be done in a vehicle. “Did you hear the jeep’s engine?”

  “No. Anthony didn’t leave.” The look on Melissa’s face took on a mixture of exasperation and fear.

  “Is it possible you fell asleep?” Father John persisted. It was exactly the line of questioning Miller would take, and they had to be prepared.

  The young woman burst into tears. “I thought you were Anthony’s friend.”

  Father John got up, went around the desk, and patted her shoulder. “Melissa, I believe in Anthony as much as you do. But there’s a hole in his alibi big enough to walk a buffalo through. He wasn’t with you every minute. There’s a chunk of time you can’t account for.”

  “What are we going to do?” Melissa wiped at her eyes with two fingers as she looked up at him.

  Father John leaned against the edge of the desk and stared out the window at the blue and white ridge of mountain peaks. This was going to make Miller’s day. Sooner or later all this would come out. Melissa would blow an alibi and hand over a motive, all in one neat package.

  Aware of the young woman’s eyes on him, Father John turned toward her. “You and Anthony must tell Vicky everything. There can’t be any surprises. She has to know what happened so she can be prepared to defend him.”

  “Defend him,” Melissa said. “You think he’ll be charged with
murder?”

  “I hope not. But it’s possible.”

  Melissa seemed to sink into the chair. “You don’t understand, Father. Vicky doesn’t want to help Anthony.”

  “Wrong, Melissa.”

  The young woman looked up at him, eyes wide. “You mean ...” She jumped up and walked over to the window. “Wait a minute. Are you saying what I think you’re saying? Anthony wouldn’t tell her about spending the night with me, right? So she doesn’t know if he really has an alibi. Thanks, Father John,” she said as she strolled back to the desk. “Now I know what I have to do.”

  He waited for her to explain what that might be. It wasn’t the first time someone had come to him with a problem, figured out the solution, and thanked him for it.

  “I’m going to tell Mother and Uncle Ned and everybody else. I might even put an ad in the Gazette. Anthony Castle and Melissa Bennett are in love and are going to be married. That should give the moccasin telegraph something to buzz about. Then that Arapaho warrior won’t have to protect his woman. He can tell the truth, and maybe Vicky can clear him.”

  Father John stood on the front porch and watched the Miata curve around Circle Drive. As Melissa turned onto Seventeen-Mile Road, she stuck her arm out the window and waved. There was something light-hearted about the gesture, hopeful. He wished he could share her hope. The hot wind sighed through the cottonwoods and evergreens, but it seemed ominous, not calming. He could feel his heart thumping as he turned back into the house. A cold beer with a shot of whiskey—that always focused his thoughts. He shoved the idea away. Why did it always creep over him at unexpected moments?

  The living room opened to the right, opposite the study, and he contemplated switching on the Red Sox game just to get the score, but there was no time. As soon as Miller heard about Melissa, everything would fast-forward. How long would it take—two days, three days, a week at most—before Anthony was indicted on first-degree murder? Unless ... unless—God Almighty, he thought. He had to come up with some answers, connect some of the dots. And he had to do it fast. Meantime, there was Anthony out at the ranch, blithely refusing to name his alibi, protecting the girl he loves and unaware of how bad things could get for him.