The Dream Stalker

by Margaret Coel

  Risen out of a ditch, Father John often thought, much as he himself had risen out of Grace House after his treatment for alcoholism and had come to an Indian reservation, the last place on earth he had ever thought to find himself. Had come here, like Walks-on, to begin a new life.

  A few feet from the dog, a cluster of cottonwoods marked the boundary of the back yard. Leonard perched halfway up a ladder, maneuvering a chain saw among the branches. The saw sputtered into life, a loud, intermittent growl. Beyond the trees was the baseball field, matted and soggy-looking in the morning air. No telling when the field would dry out enough for the Eagles to practice. This would be the eighth season he coached the Indian kids, the eighth season they would show the teams in Lander and Riverton what baseball was all about. But spring was slow in arriving: a few mornings of sunshine, followed by afternoons and nights of pelting rain. Dark clouds drifted over the mountains. The rain would come again today.

  Father John took another gulp of coffee. He forced his thoughts to the work awaiting his attention in the office. The minutiae of running a mission: Ladies’ Sodality and men’s meetings; religious education and adult literacy classes, Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, liturgy services—all to schedule and preside over. There were messages to answer, calls to return, bills to pay.

  Always the bills. At least this was one area in which his new assistant had some expertise. Along with a master’s degree in finance, Father Geoff Schneider had the propensity of his German ancestors for order and precision. He’d arrived two weeks ago, and Father John had handed him the books. Since then, the mission’s finances had moved to the back of his worries. There was always the chance his new assistant would hit upon some brilliant plan to keep St. Francis Mission solvent.

  He rinsed out the mug and started across the kitchen just as Elena stepped into the doorway, blocking his path. She wore a blue, flower-printed dress under a yellow apron that hung from her neck. Part Arapaho and part Cheyenne, she barely reached his shoulder. She was in her sixties, though not even she knew exactly where in her sixties. He could see the pockets of pink scalp shining through her gray hair.

  “You sit yourself right down,” she ordered, turning her round face upward and fixing him with blue-black eyes. “You’ll have your oatmeal in no time.”

  “The office beckons.” He threw out both hands. The matter was beyond his control.

  “Office can wait.”

  “There are bills to pay. . . .”

  “You ain’t got no money.”

  “Didn’t you hear? We got a check for a million dollars.”

  “What I hear is the pastor’s havin’ some wild dreams.” The old woman gestured toward the round table in the center of the kitchen. “Sit yourself down. You need your oatmeal after bein’ out half the night.”

  He sensed the conversation lurch toward the real point of his sitting down and eating breakfast: The old woman could ply him with questions about last night, and, maybe even gather information to transmit over the moccasin telegraph. Most likely she had arrived at seven this morning, as usual, and Father Geoff had mentioned the late-night call. And she had clucked over the stubbornness—the Irish could be so stubborn—that had driven the pastor of St. Francis Mission out into a miserable, rainy night when anyone with good sense would know to stay home. It was only by the grace of the good spirits that looked after fools and stray animals that he’d gotten back safely, and now she wanted to know all the details.

  He said, “I promise to eat two bowls of oatmeal tomorrow.”

  The old woman fixed both hands atop her hips and gave him a long look of exasperation. He was impossible. She did her best to take care of him and contribute to the flow of news on the reservation. What else could she do? After a long moment, she said, “Somebody’s waitin’ to see you in the study.”

  “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You’re supposed to eat your oatmeal first.”

  * * *

  Father John expected to find Ted Gianelli, the stocky, black-haired FBI agent and former cornerback for the Buffalo Bills. He hailed from Quincy, Massachusetts, practically Father John’s old backyard, he sat in the front pew at the ten o’clock Mass every Sunday with his wife and four little girls, and, Father John had to admit, the agent probably loved opera even more than he did. In the couple of months Gianelli had been assigned to central Wyoming, they’d become friends.

  But as Father John walked into the study, two men rose from the blue wingback chairs in front of his desk. One was a white man he’d never seen before. The other was Lionel Redbull, an Arapaho in his mid thirties, close to six feet tall and slender in a muscular way, with the high, smooth forehead, prominent cheeks, and hooked nose of his people. His black hair hung in two braids down the front of a black blazer, which rode on his shoulders with ease. He had been tapped by Matthew Bosse, one of the Arapaho councilmen, to oversee the plans for the nuclear waste facility. Redbull was one of the Kuno’utose’i o, Father John thought, the Indians without blankets, the progressives.

  “Sorry to show up unexpected,” Redbull said, stepping forward, a brown hand outstretched. Discomfort and embarrassment mingled in his dark eyes. There was almost no excuse for an Arapaho to breach the forms of politeness.

  “The fault is mine,” said the white man, leaning past the Indian to extend his hand. “Paul Bryant, president, United Power Company. I flew into Riverton about an hour ago and suggested to Lionel we take a chance on finding you in your office. Father Schneider—I believe he said he’s your assistant—directed us to the residence. I hope you can spare a few minutes.”

  The man’s grip was firm and full of purpose. Father John guessed he was close to his own age, medium height and broad shouldered, with neatly trimmed dark hair and an intelligent face. He wore a gray suit, the jacket unbuttoned, a red tie knotted smartly at the collar of his white shirt.

  Father John waved both men to the wingbacks as he sank into the worn leather chair behind the desk. A shaft of sunlight broke through the window and splashed over the papers in front of him; the washing machine hummed from below the floorboards. His headache had receded into a dull throbbing. He wished he felt a little more up to what was sure to be a discussion about storing nuclear waste on the reservation. He said, “What brings you to St. Francis Mission, gentlemen?”

  “We hope to gain your support, Father O’Malley.” The white man crossed one gray-panted leg over the other, relaxed and confident.

  “My support?”

  “Let me explain. My company was formed by thirty utility companies in the East, all of which generate electricity through nuclear power. Specifically, the plants rely upon nuclear fuel rods that contain uranium dioxide. Bundling the rods together causes fission, which, of course, creates the heat necessary to generate steam and produce electric power. Unfortunately it also creates a by-product—nuclear waste.” The man shrugged, as if the matter couldn’t be helped. “The spent fuel rods contain unused uranium and some transuranic elements, such as plutonium. When handled correctly, however, these radioactive materials can be stored with absolute safety.”

  “I’ve read the report.” Father John nodded toward the red-bound book still on his desk where he’d left it last night. “It didn’t mention radioactive materials that might leak into the groundwater or plutonium dust that could escape through vents.”

  “You must understand, Father,” Bryant continued, his tone unchanged. “We’re proposing a state-of-the-art storage system that eliminates such problems. The spent fuel rods will be contained in casks made up of three layers: stainless steel cylinders, heavy metal shields, and steel shells. Engineered to withstand impact, puncture, fire, immersion in water. They should remain impermeable for at least a hundred years.”

  “Plutonium remains radioactive for thousands of years,” Father John said. “What happens after the casks disintegrate?”

  Lionel Redbull shifted in his chair, both hands gripping the armrests. The white man kept his eyes on Father Joh
n. “We must trust the science of the future to address that problem. In any case, plutonium is not the bugaboo everyone assumes. It emits alpha radiation, which, as you know, cannot even penetrate the human skin.”

  Father John said, “Plutonium can be deadly if it’s inhaled. Or if it’s swallowed, say, in water.” The room went quiet a moment. He continued, “What about the other waste products—cesium and strontium? They emit gamma and beta radiation. Even more dangerous.”

  Paul Bryant cleared his throat. “Only if released into the atmosphere or into the water. Impossible with the facility we intend to build. The casks will be stored in air-cooled concrete buildings, set on pads twelve feet thick. The entire facility will resemble a lovely industrial park, fenced and guarded, of course. It will be licensed by the Nuclear Regulatory Commission. Every precaution will be taken.”

  Redbull leaned forward, clasping his hands together—a nervous gesture. “You gotta understand, Father. We’re only gonna have the facility on the rez for thirty or forty years. Just until the federal government gets around to building a permanent storage place somewhere else. The Arapaho Business Council is behind this interim facility one hundred percent. So’s the Shoshone council. Two weeks from now the proposal’s gonna go before the joint Arapaho-Shoshone council for a final vote. It’s gonna be approved.”

  The Indian drew in a long breath and hurried on: “This here’s our chance to bring in ten million dollars every year as long as the power companies rent the facility. Sure, a couple million a year will go to the Legeaus. Hell, it’s their ranch gonna be leased.” He shrugged, resignation crossing his face. “But the rest is gonna build and operate the facility and pay for a lot of benefits. We’re talkin’ new houses, schools, clinics, roads. Not to mention some high-tech jobs Arapahos and Shoshones can count on. No more goin’ begging in Lander and Riverton for some low-paying job sweepin’ out a warehouse. . . .”

  Bryant cleared his throat, an interruption. “My company has given the Arapahos a grant to determine the safest location for the facility. Lionel here hired the best consultants available, and they all agree the Legeau ranch is an ideal storage site. The water table is safely below the surface. The soil is stable. No evidence of slippage or erosion. No bentonite that could cause expansion. No underground faults to cause an earthquake. And no known oil or mineral deposits in the area, which eliminates any drilling that could upset the ground stability. So you can see, Father O’Malley, every indicator points to a safe and profitable facility.”

  Father John picked up a ballpoint and tapped it against the edge of the desk. “What exactly do you want from me?”

  “I believe you could be of great help, Father,” Bryant said.

  “To your company?”

  A slow smile spread across the white man’s face, as if he had just taken the full measure of an opponent. “Unfortunately we must contend with the professional activists, the alarmists who come out of the woods at the mention of the words ‘plutonium’ and ‘radioactive.’” Bryant squared his shoulders, as if to accept an unpleasant reality that must be faced. “Alarmists influence a lot of people, especially if they’re Arapaho themselves, like the attorney, Vicky Holden.”

  Father John flinched, as if this stranger had hurled an invisible stone at someone in his family. He and Vicky Holden had worked together for three years now, ever since she’d returned to the reservation. Arranging adoptions and divorces; keeping some juvenile out of jail; talking some alcoholic into treatment. Vicky handled the legal side; he, the counseling. They made a good team. He enjoyed working with her—he loved being with her—although he hadn’t called her in almost three months. And she hadn’t called him. It was as if they had reached an unspoken agreement not to spend so much time together.

  It didn’t surprise him, Bryant’s singling out Vicky instead of the protesters—the outsiders. As Banner had said last night, the outsiders wouldn’t change the mind of any Indian. But Vicky might. Father John knew she’d spoken against the facility at several meetings on the reservation; she’d written a number of pieces for the Wind River Gazette. He’d read them all. All variations of the same question: If a nuclear waste facility brought so many benefits, why did no one else want it?

  He said, “Vicky Holden is not the only one who opposes the facility.”

  “That’s the point, Father.” This from Redbull. “We got outsiders crawling all over the rez, thanks to her articles. They’ll be at the public hearing tonight. And they’ll be causin’ trouble ’til the final vote at the joint council meeting. Some folks are gonna listen to them outsiders. Then they’re gonna demand the joint council turn down the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  Bryant said, “I’ve looked into St. Francis Mission and your work here, Father O’Malley. You have a great deal of influence with the people. You could allay any unfounded fears. All you would have to do is explain the data in the report.”

  “The Arapahos can read the report for themselves,” Father John said, getting to his feet. He had no intention of becoming a spokesman for a nuclear waste facility. As far as he was concerned, the meeting was over. His own thoughts had already shifted to the office: the bills, the messages. Gianelli had probably called by now.

  The two men raised themselves out of the wingbacks, reluctance in their movements. The white man reached long, manicured fingers into the inner pocket of his suit coat and extracted a small leather case. He slipped out a business card and, leaning over the desk, set it on the report. “I’ll be at the Alpine Bed and Breakfast until the joint council meeting. You can reach me there if you have any questions.”

  Father John followed his visitors into the front hall and reached around to open the door. He shook hands with both men—a nod to convention—and Redbull stepped out into the sunshine.

  Bryant hesitated in the doorway. “I always like to know my adversary,” he said. “I understand Vicky Holden’s quite intelligent, as well as beautiful. Is there anything else I should know about her?”

  Father John felt the flush of anger in his face. Who was this man? What right did he have to pry into Vicky’s life? He felt as if her privacy had been violated, and some part of his own. He said, “I’m not in the habit of discussing my friends.”

  Bryant broke into another slow, knowing smile. “I’m looking forward to meeting her,” he said. Then he turned, crossed the stoop, and started down the short sidewalk. Redbull was already behind the wheel of the green pickup parked at the edge of Circle Drive, but Bryant took his time removing his suit coat, opening the passenger door, and smoothing the coat over the seat. Then he stretched his arms upward and rolled his shoulders in an isometric exercise before lowering himself inside.

  Father John watched as the pickup swung around Circle Drive and disappeared behind the cottonwoods at the intersection with Seventeen-Mile Road. Slamming the door shut, he walked back into the study, the dull throbbing now a full-blown headache. He picked up the phone and punched in Vicky’s number. She should know about this outsider—Paul Bryant. He knew about her.

  The secretary at Vicky’s office sounded tentative and nervous. It was not a voice he recognized. Ms. Holden had just left, an emergency. Would he care to leave a message?

  He would. He asked her to have Vicky call him the minute she returned. Father John O’Malley. Yes, she had his number.

  The phone rang as he replaced the receiver, and he answered quickly, half expecting Vicky to be on the other end. It was Gianelli. “Need to talk to you,” the agent said. “My office in about an hour?”

  That left thirty minutes to make a stab at the work in his own office, Father John was thinking. Thirty minutes to hear from Vicky.

  4

  Vicky Holden saw the plain white sheet of paper with the strips of black type pasted on in irregular, horizontal rows before she had taken off her jacket or set down her purse and briefcase. She felt her heart jump. The paper hadn’t been on her desk when she’d left the office last night, but now it floated on top of a stack of folde
rs.

  She should have been prepared for another threat, she thought. The dream had come to her again last night, the same frightening dream she’d had several nights now. She had awakened this morning feeling weak and shaky. She still didn’t feel like herself, and here was another threat, like the three others she’d gotten in the last three weeks. She bent over it until the type came into focus. Her breath sounded like the gasps of a small bellows. YOU WANT TO LIVE? STAY OUT OF WHAT ISN’T YOUR BUSINESS. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

  She let her briefcase and floppy black purse drop onto the carpet beside the desk and crossed to the open door that led to the outer office. Hunched over a computer keyboard, eyes fixed on the green monitor, sat the white woman the temp service had sent over last week after Robin Levall left to follow her boyfriend on the rodeo circuit. “Mrs. Peters, who was here this morning?” Stay calm, Vicky told herself.

  The white woman raised her eyes from the monitor and turned in her chair, a tentativeness in the movement. She appeared to be on one side or the other of sixty, with a pale, round face, short hair dyed as black as coal, and bangs that crept down the top half of her forehead. She wore a prim white shirt buttoned to the neck, a black skirt, and sturdy shoes, the kind of business uniform she had probably worn to work forty years ago. “Here.” She repeated the word in a flat tone, as if to make certain she had heard it correctly.

  “Someone left a note on my desk.”

  “I came in promptly at 8:30, as you requested. . . .”

  Vicky held up one hand. “Mrs. Peters, I’m simply wondering how a certain paper got on my desk.”

  The older woman stared at her a second. “I didn’t go into your office, and nobody else has been here.”

  “The outer door was locked when you arrived?”

  The woman nodded, worry and fear mingling in her expression. “I used the key the service gave me.”