Vicky felt her stomach muscles tighten. Gianelli had already been here; she wouldn’t learn anything. She followed the other woman into the small bedroom. Agnes Bosse lay on the bed, eyes closed, her housedress bunched around puffy, arthritic knees. Two strands of gray hair spread over the pillow, like the clipped wings of a hawk. The room had the medicinal smell of cherry cough syrup.
“Agnes,” Goldie said, stepping to the bed and touching her sister’s arm. “Vicky Holden’s come here.”
The other woman opened her eyes, pushed herself up on her elbows with the quickness of a woman much younger. Then she swung her legs to the floor and patted the side of the bed.
Vicky sat down beside her. “I’m so sorry,” she began.
Agnes Bosse laid a hand over hers. “I gotta know, Vicky. Else I ain’t never gonna have no peace.”
“I don’t know who killed your husband.”
The old woman shook her head so hard, the bed gave a little jiggle. “You gotta tell me what you told Mattie.”
For a moment, Vicky said nothing. It struck her Agnes was in shock; she wasn’t making sense. “What do you mean?”
“Matthew come home from that meeting real upset.”
“The public hearing?”
“No. No.” The woman’s black eyes blazed with frustration. “That meeting last Sunday.”
“Sunday? I didn’t see Matthew last Sunday.”
The old woman stared at Vicky a long moment, as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. Then she said, “It must’ve been you. Who else would’ve told him stuff about that nuclear place that got him so mad?”
“Told him what?”
Agnes squeezed Vicky’s hand. “Matthew wouldn’t tell me; said it was best I didn’t know. Said it was dangerous, and he was just gonna handle it. All’s he was tryin’ to do was help the People. Then that riot started up outside Blue Sky Hall, and somebody bumped into him real hard, and he come home with this bruise on his chest, and he was too old for that. And now somebody’s killed him.” The old woman’s voice broke.
Vicky clasped the woman’s hand in hers. It felt lifeless and cool. “Did Matthew say he’d met with me?”
The old woman raised her eyes toward the dresser with a wood-framed photograph on top—a younger Agnes and Matthew, an anniversary perhaps. Vicky saw the grief and longing mingling in her expression. “Not exactly. I just thought . . .” She drew a tissue out of her dress pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “You was fightin’ him so much, I thought it had to be you.”
“I’m sorry, Agnes.” Vicky patted the old woman’s hand and got to her feet, fighting back her frustration and fear. She had thought Agnes might know something that would explain Matthew’s death, but Agnes thought she was the one who knew.
Goldie slipped an arm around her sister’s shoulders and laid her onto the pillow as Vicky backed toward the door. Suddenly Agnes raised herself again. “You better get away, Vicky,” she said, a wildness in her tone. “They’ll come lookin’ for you, too, just like they did Mattie.”
Vicky retraced her steps through the crowded living room, avoiding the eyes on her. The killer could be here—the thought sent an involuntary chill across her shoulders. But now she had a license number. She had something. She let herself out the front door and hurried past the Arapahos hovering in the driveway, aware of their quiet gasps of breath. No one spoke to her. She was the outsider here. As she slid into the Bronco, she checked her watch. Still two hours before the hearing at the tribal court in Fort Washakie. Time enough to seek the help she needed now.
* * *
Vicky drove to Highway 287 and stopped at a trading post and convenience store that drew mostly tourists. Inside, she selected a pouch of tobacco, three cans of beef hash, and a packet of cotton fabric with the blue, red, black, and yellow geometric designs of the Arapaho. After making her purchases, she drove into Fort Washakie and turned west on Trout Creek Road. After a few miles she wheeled right into a dirt yard, setting the Bronco in front of a small frame house painted the color of rosewood. White sheets and pink and blue towels danced in the breeze on lines next to the house. A white propane tank on metal legs shimmered in the sun. For a moment her mind switched back to other springs, when she and her cousins—brothers and sisters in the Arapaho way—would skip across the yard, darting through the sun and shadow.
Vicky forced her concentration to the present. Gathering her purse and the purchases, she let herself out of the Bronco and walked to the house. She rapped her knuckles against the front door. A hollow thwack. In an instant the door swung open, and Grandmother Ninni was hugging her close. The old woman was her mother’s aunt. Only in the Arapaho world did that make Ninni her grandmother.
“We knew you was comin’ by,” the old woman said.
“How did you know? I didn’t know if I could get by today.”
“We seen you comin’.”
Vicky understood. Perhaps Ninni had seen her coming in a dream. Or Grandfather Hedly, one of the guardians of the sacred truths, may have had a dream.
Vicky stepped into the small living room with the green linoleum floor, the round rug woven out of rags, the gray sofa sloping in the middle, the TV with rabbit ears sticking in the air. Grandfather Hedly sat in a green lounge chair against the far wall, and she walked over and took his hand. It felt rough against her palm. Then she offered him the plastic bag containing the tobacco, the cans of food, the fabric.
“Grandfather,” Vicky began, in a tone of respect, “I have been having a hard dream. I don’t understand what it means. I have come to ask you for guidance.”
The old man nodded, his eyes ancient and blurry. Vicky knew he rose every day at dawn to pray for the People. He was the keeper of the sacred wheel, the Hehotti. He was also one of the Four Old Men—the Bhe’uhoko—who represented the spirits that guarded the four quarters of the world, the north and south, the east and west, and that controlled the directions of the wind so the creatures would have air to breathe. Only men with great composure and control ever became one of the Four Old Men. They had great self-discipline, even over their thoughts, since whatever they thought could become true. If they were to think bad thoughts, it could mean disaster for the People.
Grandfather Hedly indicated she should sit, and she sank down onto a chair near him. Grandmother Ninni’s hand rested on her shoulder with a calming pressure as Vicky related her dream: She was struggling to climb up the butte; the thick, shiny green water swirled below her; the bear lumbered ahead and became a person, beckoning her onward and then disappearing.
Quiet fell over the little house, except for the sound of a clock ticking somewhere. After a moment, the old man pushed himself out of the lounge chair and said, “We must ask Hehotti for help.”
Vicky and Grandmother Ninni followed him across the kitchen and out the back door. They crossed the soft dirt yard to a small shed. The old man fumbled with the combination lock on the metal bolt. The plastic bag she’d given him swung off one arm. After a moment, the door pulled open. A shaft of sunlight split the darkness as they stepped inside, moving to the right. Against the wall opposite the door, above a shelf, hung a large bundle wrapped in buffalo hide and tied with rope.
The old man approached the bundle, praying softly in Arapaho. “In a sacred manner, I am walking.” Vicky realized with a kind of shock that she understood the words. She couldn’t speak Arapaho, but sometimes, when she wasn’t struggling to understand, the meaning of words floated into her mind. The old man was asking Nih’a ca—the Great Mystery Above—to come and live with the People, to hear them in their supplications. He set the cans of food in front of the bundle, the tobacco on the left, the fabric on the right.
The old man stepped back outside, passing to the left. After a moment, he reappeared carrying a large pan covered with a lid. Inside the pan, Vicky knew, were hot coals of cottonwood and chips of cedar. He carried the pan slowly by Vicky and Grandmother Ninni and set it on the shelf. Removing the lid, he allowed the cedar smo
ke to rise into the air. Then he passed his hands through the smoke and drew it toward him, blessing and cleansing himself in preparation to touch the sacred wheel.
Gently and reverently the elder reached up and removed the sacred bundle from its place against the wall. He laid it on the shelf next to the pan and began untying the rope and pulling back the buffalo hide. Again he placed his hands into the cedar smoke, then unwrapped the next layer of hide and fabric. He repeated the process until, finally, Hehotti lay open to the air.
A hush enveloped the little space. Vicky felt as if she had stopped breathing, as if all of time had folded into the moment as Grandfather Hedly lifted the wheel, circled it above his head, like the movement of the sun, and turned toward her.
She heard herself gasp. She’d seen the sacred wheel many times at the Sun Dance. It filled her with a wordless awe. It was round, formed of a single branch, with ends shaped like the head and tail of a snake—a harmless water snake, meek and gentle, like the snakes that lived in the buffalo wallows. Blue beads were wrapped around the top, and eagle feathers hung from four points around the wheel. Carved into the wood were the symbols of the Thunderbird, which represented the spirit guardians of creation; Nahax, the morning star; He thon natha, the Lone-Star of the evening; and the chain of stars, the Milky Way. All of creation, all of its harmony, was contained in the sacred wheel—a reminder through time to her people that Nih’a ca was always with them.
Still praying in Arapaho, Grandfather Hedly brought the wheel close to her. “May this woman, your daughter, accept what is given to her as it is given to her.” Raising it to the right side of her head, he slowly brought it down along her body to her right foot. Still praying, he raised the wheel again and brought it down her left side. “May this woman, your daughter find the direction you have given her without difficulty.”
Then he repeated the blessing—four times in all—and said, “May this woman, your daughter, walk in balance to find the center of her life.”
When he had finished, the old man returned the sacred wheel to the folds of the bundle and laid Vicky’s fabric over it. Slowly he began folding the other layers into place—the fabrics, the buffalo hide. Then he turned around, his eyes on her. “Nih’a ca has allowed all creatures to share his power. Bear has come to show you how to use the power Nih’a ca gave to him. Bear is strong. His home is inside the earth, which he protects. The green river is the poison that will flood the earth if it is not protected. Bear has come to you in your dream to bring you the strength you need now. But your heart must be pure to accept the gift of strength. You must ask your heart: Do you wish to protect the earth and help the People, or do you wish only to become puffed up and proud so that people will say, ‘How important this woman is.’ You must think about these things. You must keep your heart pure. And then you must do what is right, and you will not become tired.”
* * *
White clouds drifted across the sky, like waves foaming on an ocean, as Vicky climbed back into the Bronco. She felt calm, refreshed. Whatever happened to her, she knew she would have the strength to do what she must. She felt like a warrior in the Old Time, riding into battle with the Hiiteni—the symbol of the power given in a dream—painted on a battle shield. Confident in the dream power. Supremely confident, even as the warrior galloped toward death.
21
“You got the strike zone?” Father John called.
“Yeah, I got it, Father.” Charlie Longbull did a little shuffle, concentrating on the space above the plate. His black eyes shone with anticipation as he gripped the bat.
Father John walked over and positioned the bat over the kid’s shoulder. “Bat behind your hands, remember. Weight on back leg. Why is that?”
“So I get power, Father. When I connect.”
“Okay. Let’s see the power.” Father John stepped out of the way. He motioned to the kid on the mound, who reared back, went into an exaggerated windup and unleashed a fastball. The pitch might come in anywhere, Father John knew, especially at the start of the season with the kids trying to remember everything they’d forgotten over the winter.
The ball curved over the outside edge of the plate, thigh-high, and Charlie stepped into it. The thwack sounded across the field as the ball spiraled out over second base. Jason Little back-pedaled after it, gloved it. Then dropped it.
Charlie loped to first. Ah, well, Father John thought. They would work on defense later. Today they were practicing hitting, renewing an acquaintance with the strike zone, making some progress on the basics: See ball, hit ball.
He’d nearly forgotten about practice this afternoon. He hadn’t even realized it had stopped raining, he’d been so preoccupied when he got back to the office. He’d stopped by to see Agnes Bosse—poor woman, in shock and confusion. He’d have to go back later to discuss the funeral arrangements. This afternoon hadn’t been the time. Only a few hours earlier, Matthew had kissed her good-bye and left for a normal day at the tribal offices.
Then somebody had forced him off the road and shot him. And Father John couldn’t shake the feeling that Vicky could be next. The moment he’d gotten in the office, he’d tried to call her again, wanting to assure himself she was okay, ready to convince her to leave the area, and if that failed, which he expected, to insist she come to the guest house. She was stubborn, but so was he.
The secretary had answered. Ms. Holden was not in today, she’d announced once more. The same tone, but there was a hint of something new, he thought. Exasperation.
“Where can I reach her?”
“Sorry, Father O’Malley, but I’m really not at liberty—”
“Tell her I’ve got to speak with her.”
He’d hung up and walked down the hallway to Father Geoff’s office, a courtesy call to see how the other priest was feeling. He had a pretty good idea: head like a basketball, stomach lurching, walls spinning unexpectedly. He knew the feeling well. It was not a memory he wanted.
Father Geoff was on the phone. He glanced up, still intent on the conversation. Black circles rimmed his eyes behind the bone-framed glasses. His face was pale. It took a moment before Father John realized his assistant was discussing bingo equipment—the advantages of leasing versus buying.
“Absolutely not.” Father John broke into the conversation.
The other priest hurried through the good-byes and hung up. “You’re wrong, John. It’s the only way.” Earnestness filled his voice.
“I’m telling you, no bingo at St. Francis,” Father John said. He swung around and strode down the corridor, aware of the sound of his boots clacking against the floor.
“We don’t have any choice!” the other priest shouted just as Father John turned into his own office. He slammed the door, rattling the pane of glass.
For the next couple of hours, he had pitched himself into the work on his desk: returning phone calls, stacking and restacking bills in the order in which they should be paid, if and when they could ever be paid. Then he’d called the mortuary in Riverton and arranged for them to care for Gabriel Many Horses’ body as soon as the coroner released it. The poor man had already been dead two days. He should be buried on the third day, his ghost shown the way to the spirit world. It was what the Arapahos believed, and Father John sensed it was what the murdered cowboy would have wanted.
He’d just finished the call and was making some notes to himself when Charlie Longbull had knocked on the door and edged it open, peeking inside, black eyes dancing with light. “Ready, Father?” the boy asked.
Father John set down his pen. Sunlight streaked through the window, making little patterns on the worn carpet and the stucco walls. He gave the kid his most serious attention, as if they were about to deliberate a matter of grave importance.
“Ready? For what?”
“You know.” Charlie pushed the door wide open and thrust out his left hand. He had on a baseball glove.
“Oh, I get it,” Father John said, leaning back in his chair. “You’re ready to do s
ome homework.”
“No, Father. Practice.”
“You want to practice homework?”
“Baseball practice, Father.” It came out “Fad—der.”
“Baseball!” Father John jumped out of his chair. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” he said, tousling the kid’s hair as he strode past him into the corridor.
Out in front, the other boys were waiting at the foot of the stairs, throwing balls into the air. One was throwing a glove. It landed on the gravel, and he ran after it, scooping it up as if it were a baseball.
“Where have you guys been?” Father John called as he hurried down the stairs. “I thought you were never going to show up.”
“It finally stopped rainin’, Father,” one kid called out.
“That so? Then we better get going before it starts again.”
The boys took off, racing across the center of the mission and out toward the baseball field. Father John ran after them, a sense of gladness washing over him. The ground was squishy, pocked with muddy puddles. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that the season was about to get under way. They were going to play some ball.
He was working with the next hitter, repeating the same instructions—focus on the zone, relax your grip, easy does it—when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gianelli coming along the side of the field, hands thrust into the pockets of his tan raincoat. The batter connected. A grounder sped toward left field.
“Who’s that, sweet-swinging Joe DiMaggio?” the fed asked, planting himself next to Father John.
“Looks a lot like Ted Williams to me.” Father John motioned up the next kid.
The agent stomped both feet into the soft ground. Lowering his voice, he said, “You heard what happened? Reservation’s starting to seem like goddamn Tosca. Somebody ran Bosse off the road this morning. Shot him.”
“I heard,” Father John said. He didn’t want to think about it right now. Now he just wanted to coach the Eagles.
The Dream Stalker Page 14
